Proud to be an oddball

I was quite young when I decided my best option was to be an eccentric.  I'm not the sort of person that stands out - I'm neither beautiful nor ugly.  I am not stupid, or smart.  I am rarely overwhelmingly obnoxious, but I am not particularly polite, either.  Though I am not athletic, I am also not completely incapable.  My physical appearance is completely nondescript.  I'm of medium height, neither fat nor thin, with brown hair and hazel eyes.  My voice is unremarkable.

It's not that I wanted to stand out in a crowd.  In fact, I was thankful for being able to blend in.  But I would still like to be memorable to people I meet, and respect.  No peer will ever be amazed at my wit or talent.  No teacher will ever point me out as an example - of success or failure.  That frustrated me, especially in middle school.  The students that the adults liked and respected were either rowdy or brilliant or beautiful or willfully ignorant.

So I had to play my strengths.  In the South-Eastern states, I was already unusual for being a Reformed Christian.  I read more quickly and of a greater variety than most students, and never watched television.  I generally got along with my parents and brothers.  I had lived overseas (on a volcano, no less). And before that I had lived in North Dakota, which was equally foreign.  I had had snowball fights and gone sledding on a regular basis, and without having to pay for a ski resort.  I rarely met my extended relatives, and couldn't even name all of my cousins.  I also had experience with RPG's - both PC and tabletop.

Instead of hiding my differences, I used them to define myself relative to other people.  As a eccentric, there was little pressure to fit in.  I was expected not to share mainstream interests, to dress oddly (i.e. cheaply), to discuss thoughtfully, and to be socially awkward.  If I was bored or uncomfortable in a situation, people accepted the fact that I was a bookworm and allowed me to hide behind ink and paper.  If my pants were ugly and too long, well it was comfortable and I've never cared much for my appearance.  There were limitations, of course.  I was often left out when the talk turned to popular culture.  While people were generally very gracious about my lack of social skills, it didn't change the fact that they were (and are) lacking.  I'd rather write an exam than have a conversation.  I would often get in trouble in English class for reading ahead or disagreeing with the textbook.

By the end of high school, I had gotten very comfortable with this label and stereotype.  I had learned to knit, and found other people who enjoyed it.  A small group of us became obsessed with classic film.  I read popular fantasy series that other students were eager to chat about.  I avoided the lunchroom, instead visiting teachers or attending a philosophy club.  A friend and I played with my family's video camera.  English teachers gave me old textbooks they were throwing away, and lent me other books.     

There are more of us than you would think.  On television, high school consists of jocks, cheerleaders, honor students, and the dreaded unpopular crowd which usually consists of goths and geeks.  Geeks, of course, wear glasses, have a very substandard notion of appropriate hygiene, wear dark ill-fitting clothes, and desperately wish to be a cheerleader or jock.  And they are usually proficient with computers.  I know it may shock you, but this is rarely the case.  It is possible for a person to enjoy cheerleading, chemistry, and opera at the same time.  It is possible for a person to be a brilliant and skilled artist/mathematician/athlete.

There are more of us than you would think.  And we can see you.  Mwa ha ha ha!!!!

My family - the Warbling Wonders?

As far back as i can remember, my dad has sung, and my mom has not. Mom says when i was a baby, i generally preferred Dad over her because of this. I'd be all whiny and fussy (although, naturally, less verbal about it than i am now), and Mom would do anything and everything to quiet me. But all Dad had to do was sing to me, and i would soon calm down. My favourites tended to be the songs he composed to my stuffed animals – “Whitey the Seal” to the tune of “Winnie the Pooh,” for instance. When my brothers and i grew a little older, Dad recorded himself singing on cassette tapes for us to listen to at night. And of course, he taught us all the classics, such as “Great Big Gobs of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts,” “Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder,” and “What a Friend We Have in Cheeses.” Much to his dismay, we taught ourselves “This is the Song That Never Ends” and “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” In church, my eldest brother especially would sing proudly, and loudly. I was incredibly embarrassed by this, especially when people would come up to him after the service and thank him for his enthusiastic singing. At that time i was too busy to step on his toes, as Dad needed curbing of his own - he insisted on showing off his command of accents. “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” was German, “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow” was British, “Amazing Grace” was French… Needless to say, i had no effect other than to exacerbate the problem, but i think the elderly ladies who always sat behind us enjoyed the show. We all have an embarrassing tendency to sing in public, especially around Christmastime. It’s just that the season is simply too short to sing all of the good songs if we don’t, and we also often feel the need to purge ourselves of the updated translations. I mean “God Rest You Merry Christian Folk” has nothing on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “set your minds on things eternal” simply does not evoke the same imagery as “ponder nothing earthly minded.” Fortunately for the public, my father and my brothers can carry a tune fairly well, so as long as i stay fairly quiet, nobody feels the need to relieve themselves of rotten produce (an Alto singing with three Basses doesn’t generally stand out very much, anyway). In fact, we often get quite a few nods and smiles, and some people look like they’d like to join in, but so far no one has. Probably because they don’t wish to embarrass us with their superior singing ability. We also have to be careful regarding whom we watch our favourite musicals with. It is practically impossible to be silent while watching Congress sing a rousing song about opening windows (1776), or Maria teaching the children how to sing (The Sound of Music), or Yenta matchmaking (The Fiddler on the Roof). You try it sometime. But you musn't think we wait for Christmas or musicals to inflict ourselves on the public; we’ve also been known to break out in hospital waiting rooms, or while walking the dog, or waiting for the 4th of July fireworks to start, or in the middle of dinner, or at the grocery store, or while waiting in line at the veterinary clinic… For some reason, people are much less forgiving when they’re not filled with Christmas spirit. Instead of nods, we get odd looks, and people subtly moving away, and acquaintances crossing the street – especially when we try to harmonize. However, in most cases we’d rather sing than talk to them, anyway. It is a simple fact that some days, it is absolutely imperative to inquire of the world if they are going to Scarborough Fair, and exclaim about the glories of goober peas, and inform Aunt Rhodie that her old grey goose is dead. Yes, i know - my poor mother…

Moving, Part V

This was probably the most enjoyable move. We weren't leaving anyone, simply moving on base. And in any case, moves with Italian movers are bound to be exciting. There were very few actual mishaps, as i remember, but the potentiality... Almost having ID's (required for entry on base) packed away, bowling balls placed in pitcher bowls without even any paper b/w them, fragile items practically tossed off the balcony. There's a scene in The Hobbit where the dwarves taunt Bilbo Baggins by singing this while cleaning the kitchen - very apt, if i do say so myself. The house on base looked just like all of the other houses on base. It was a pale yellow one-story structure, divided in half. However, we had the loveliest trees in our backyard (unless you talk to my mother, who did our laundry) - some lovely eucalypti and an absolutely gorgeous fig tree. One of the eucalypti even had a sort of treehouse attached, and a ladder, and a hammock. If we didn't feel like climbing those, there were some pine trees acrost the road. We could (and did) walk to church, to the commissary, to the school, to the track, and to the creek behind the hospital (to catch tadpoles)... And it was safe. My friends and i biked and rollerbladed all over that base so that even i couldn't get lost if i'd wanted to. Halloween was amazing - we'd all get dressed up, and the people that lived off base would set up in the parking lot, and all of us kids would go trick-or-treating while the adults rested from having to assemble knights, ghostbusters, princesses, zombies, and legomen from the thrift store and packing cases. I still remember that boring, cookie-cutter old house (which is no more, i've heard - they bull-dozed that part of the base, so all of our beautiful trees and favourite haunts have made way for the new hospital, or something practical like that) as a place of beauty, not because it was of any aesthetic value, but because living there was beautiful. Okay, so i rhapsodized about living on base instead of actually talking about the move, but the move was even less interesting. Trust me. If you are insanely bored, links to all the other parts can be found here.

My Solution to World Peace, or How Werthers Echte Saves Lives

Once upon a time there was an ornery little girl. She had two ornery little brothers, two annoyed parents, and two amused grandparents. They were all in the process of completing an ordinary little road trip. This little girl was a very clever little girl – she knew better than to ask the banal “Are we there yet?” Instead, she inquired as to the length of the journey, and number of miles currently covered, the speed with which they were traveling, the amount of gas in the tank, and the hunger of everyone else in the car. About twice every hour. For hours. And hours. Upon being informed that there had been no significant change in status since the last time she had posed her queries, the ornery little girl began to feel put upon. No one, she felt, was taking her seriously. Least of all her ornery little brothers, who seemed more concerned with reaching the last verse of “This is the Song that Never Ends.” The air was tense, and an explosion seemed imminent. Fortunately, the not-quite-as-amused grandfather, with remarkable presticogitation, bethought himself of a simple solution. He asked all of the ornery children and annoyed parents to listen up, as he had something that would make everyone much more comfortable, and then he produced the Happy Pill. Taking this pill would, he told them, make them happy. He immediately popped one in his mouth and began to beam a glorious smile. The ornery little children were, as i said before, rather clever. They knew something was up, and gazed at their grandfather with suspicion shining in their eyes. However, the grandfather had already raised four children, and so informed the children that unfortunately, there weren’t very many pills, and perhaps they would be willing to sacrifice their share for the good of their poor parents, who were, after all, the ones doing all the work. The parents and the grandmother thanked the children for their generousity, and they, too, began to smile, and laugh, and sing, and generally have a very good time. That did it. The children clamoured for their fair share. After that, the ornery little girl and her two ornery little brothers were never ornery for very long. They knew that all they had to do was take a Happy Pill, and eventually everything would turn out all right. Waits seemed shorter. The offense of skipping or not skipping 67, 66, and 65 bottles of beer by going straight to 64 seemed completely unimportant. Stomaches were less empty, and bladders less full. Everyone agreed on what music to listen to, and that the orange punch-buggy was seen first by the littlest brother made no impact. And all were happy, because they believed they were.

stories...

I don't know why, but people tell me the randomest things, sometimes... Like the fact that "He was a chaplain for 30 years, and when he retired he became a part-time (paid, but full-time work) pastor at a church, and now he's thinking about retiring from that, only he's worried about having to move back here and he'll lose his network of people. I think that he'll be fine - there are still lots of people here that he knows and that care about him." Still, i understand the nervousness - we moved away from a city for just one year, and it was still an awfully uncomfortable fit returning. You can't go back. Or "she lived less than one block from the house she was born into, until she was over eighty. Then she felt like she'd rather be closer to at least one or two of her children, so she moved here." That has to be pretty strange. People talk about "finding themselves" as if there is only one answer; as if you can discover one way to define yourself for the rest of your life. Some people use geography, others relationships, but in the end, we all discover that nothing in this life is stable enough to attach us permanently. Still, to leave your place of birth after 80 years - to break all those ties and associations and memories - that's an awfully brave thing to do, i think. Or "she had a beau who absolutely adored her - she could do no wrong in his eyes. This annoyed her, and besides, he wasn't popular. So on prom night she threw him over for the popular kid, only to find out that the popular kid had a midnight curfew and so they couldn't go to the unofficial parties. Later, she hooked up the popular boy with one of her best girlfriends. They ended up getting married, he became a pastor, and they moved to California." How many hundreds of chickflicks are not based on stories just like this one? This is actually a story about my great-aunt, and my great-grandmother can't understand why she wouldn't stick with the boy who worshipped her. Personally, i sympathize with my aunt - anybody who thinks that way about me has to be pretty stupid. Or "my grandfather immigrated to the states because he was closely associated with Queen Wilhelmina, and had to escape the Nazi regime." I know WWII happened very recently. But at least here in the states, we seem to have escaped the worst of it and hence have escaped the memories. Our nightmares are of Korea and Vietnam. Or "he needed a chair with arms, so he could get up out of it - he was nearly 100, after all. Of course, a chair could not officially be provided, as the whole circle of sages (a.k.a elderly men meeting for coffee and gossip) was completely unofficial anyway. So a tattered green chair was pulled out of a dank storage room somewhere, and unofficially commandeered. Less than a year later, he died. His fellow philosophers viewed the chair mournfully, and decided the best thing to do was drape a black scarf acrost it. Of course, it gets awfully crowded in that tiny break room and there weren't enough chairs before. But no one wants to sit in his chair, so a replacement must be found. However, no one would want to sit in the chair that replaced his chair, either, so it has to be exactly the same as his chair, only not." I can understand that this would be annoying if you were the one that had to deal with the chair. But i also wonder how i would feel, if a good friend - who was also greatly revered within our circle - passed away, and i knew i wouldn't be far behind. Actually, i've always kind of liked the idea of public mourning - that you wear something to publicly acknowledge your grief for a proscribed amount of time, and then you can put it away and get on with your life. Of course, i know you can't just pack up your emotions and forget about it. But to, as a society, recognize that there is both joy and grief in life - a time for mourning and a time for dancing - seems to me important. In my experience we tend toward existential nihilism or utopian pollyanna-ism, both of which strike me as dangerously impractical. Or "i know it says budget, but actually, it's where we keep all of the coffee supplies." Is this not brilliant? There's some deep irony in here i haven't discovered yet, but i do know it's brilliant. Or "oh yes, they can! In fact, i used to own a dog that could climb trees. Only, he couldn't get back down. So he would bark up there until we came and got him." ... okay ...

My Christmas Holidays…

So… My brother and i go to school a few hundred miles from my parents home – in clear weather and on good roads, this trip takes 12 hours to drive. Of course, this was the first time my brother and i had driven our new vehicle for any length of time. It is also my first winter driving up North, and was his first time driving at all in some months (and i know my tense changed, but i think it makes more sense that way. I’ve never understood why people freak out about tense changes). If you live in the states, and have been paying any attention whatsoever to the national weather… It took us 45 minutes just to get out of the neighborhood. We had to shovel approximately 10 inches of snow out of the driveway, and then i drove while my brother followed me with a shovel. If the postman hadn’t been stuck and willing to help us, i think we would have stayed there until the thaw. It took us another 45 minutes to get out of the city proper, and on the highway (or expressway? There’s a difference, i think…). About 3.5 hours later, my brother expectorates – or explodes, take your pick. While driving. On icy roads. In heavy traffic. Of course, it could have been worse – he might have eaten more than an orange for breakfast. Guess who got to drive the entire rest of the way? Oh, and guess who couldn’t eat because someone else couldn’t stand the smell of food? On the drive back, some poor transportationless sucker was talked into coming along and assisting with money for gasoline. She didn’t realize at the time that the way my brother and i stay awake is to sing. We spared her our jazzy/operatic/harmonized/rap/just-plain-weird version of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall (which kills about 1.5 hours, if you’re curious), but she was forced to listen to us “singing” along with Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Julie Andrews, Nickle Creek, and the Beatles. I think she must have decided it was best to simply humour us, as she joined in our impromptu (and improvised) hymnsing, and even attempted to harmonize with our attempts at the melody. In fact, if my dearly beloved brother had not driven 50 miles off course before noticing… I just realized i haven’t written about my actual holidays at all. So i guess my title line kind of mislead you. I’ll imagine you are all absolutely panting to read about my Christmas vacation, and you imagine i’m desperately apologetic, and we’ll get along fine. Or not.

Did you know that the two most terrifying words in the English language are “what” and “if?”

People think that i don’t care, but the truth is: i do. People think that, because i am somewhat eccentric, i am free from the fear of popular opinion. The truth is: i am not beautiful or smart, and i am afraid fitting in too much. People think that, because i don’t mind losing i am a good sport. The truth is i am so afraid of trying and not winning that i decided not to try unless no one knows i am actually attempting anything. People tell me i can write, but the truth is: what if i can’t? People tell me i am too cynical, but the truth is: i am afraid to hope for uncertainties. In fact, i am afraid to hope for certainties – what if they are wrong? People think i am their friend, but the truth? You terrify me. What if i say something stupid? Or don’t say something kind? Or eat too much? Or see the wrong movies, or listen to the wrong music? What if? The truth is: i am afraid to care, because what if i’m wrong? What if it hurts me? What if i hurt you? I know what i deserve, and it is less than nothing. What if you know that, too? Do you know that i agonize over every email? Tremble after every conversation? Feel sick to my stomache every time i click publish, even though i know that no more than three people will actually ever read it? People think that i have a clue about my life, but the truth? I am a blind, crawling worm, afraid to move lest i make a mistake, and afraid to stay still lest the sky fall on my head.

Collections I

When my mom was growing up, her mom gave away or threw out or sold some of her things when she wasn't there and without asking. Nothing major - i think it was paper dolls or barbies or something. This experience so traumatized her that, in spite of our many moves and pack rat instincts, she generally refused to throw anything away for us. She would plead and bribe, of course, but we would have to throw things away ourselves. This has led to some rather absurd but sometimes really cool collections over the years which we blame on our Dutch heritage. I mention just a couple here, to leave room for further posts. The first collection i remember having myself was of candy wrappers. Any candy wrappers, although i was sensible enough to see the folly in saving any that still had sweet residue left on them. I had visions of making a beautiful doll dress with these wrappers, and then talking mom (who can hem, and that's about it) into making the dress on a larger scale for me. In the end all i got was a couple of drawers full of brightly coloured candy wrappers, which were eventually emptied into the dumpster with much heartburn. I must confess that i am still susceptible to Winnie the Pooh candy wrappers - i once got a large chocolate Pooh, and i still have the wrapper pinned to my bulletin board. It's cute. Really! My eldest brother collects bits of string and very short pencils. That's very Boy Scout-ish of him, don't you think? He hates to wear any thing that doesn't have at least four very large pockets, which he keeps the choicest bits of string and the longest short pencils (as well as a couple of pens, a book to read, a notebook, a couple of knives, and i don't know what else). As far as i know these have never actually come in handy, though he swears they do. I think my youngest brother is the most practical. I'm not sure exactly what you call it, but he collects these miniature war toy thingies, that you use to play some silly game, and plans on selling them later for more money. He did that with the Star Wars miniatures, too (the one's they've stopped making because stupid people think they are edible). Dad collects war games. He used to belong to a group of guys that would get together and play them, and i think the idea was that us kids would grow up and play them as well. Unfortunately, only the youngest has the head for that sort of think (i tried, but for some reason, moving the troops to the squares where they look the prettiest doesn't seem to be a winning strategy). So he just collects them and right now they are all sitting in our old entertainment center, looking rather pathetic and alone. Mom collects plastic tubs, to store all of our junk in. Oh, and straitjackets.

One of these days...

I'm going to give that jogging coach person an honest answer when he asks me, "So, how'd it go today?" So far i've contented myself with simply lifting my hands in exasperation and focusing on the positive, such as "I'm still breathing." Envisualizing this situation is the one of the ways i try to stay focused. My favourite responses so far... "I can imagine few forms of exercise as agonizing, as humiliating, and as pointless as jogging." "Why do you ask that question? How can any activity known by such an unpleasant name as 'jogging' ever have gone well?" "Look at me. I'm limping. I'm gasping for breath. My face is flushed. I believe my expression must reflect at least a portion of my nausea and my absolute loathing of this activity. There are few circumstances where i would consider this state of being to be positive, although it is probable that your ideas of good are considerably different than mine." "I have no pretense or desire towards athleticism. I have always disliked running. In fact, for the last five years i have been unable to run. However, i now no longer dislike running. I loathe and despise and detest and am revolted at the thought of running." "I suspect that your motivation in asking that question is similar to the motivation of those who pull the legs off spiders. Please, i beg of you, allow me to wallow in my disgrace on my own - truly, i require no assistance." "&^$~%+#!!!!"

Singing With My Brother But No Shoes

He has agreed to sing in the church choir with me. Very forbearing of him. The poor child is going bald already - i expect it's all my fault. The other singers said they knew immediately who he was - he wasn't wearing shoes (is it really illegal to drive without shoes? that doesn't make any sense... therefore it must be true, i suppose). Although, unfortunately for him, he does rather resemble me (except that the little brat managed to grow taller than me! it simply isn't fair). And of course, since he can actually sing (i swear i was bragging about him like a proud momma or something; it was bizarre, i almost couldn't stop myself: "Oh, he sings bass. He was in a barbershop quintet last year. And he plays brass - baritone, tuba, and trumpet. Plus piano and organ, a little. Unlike me, he can talk in coherent sentences and count past ten. Just brilliant.") they're grateful for him. I was so glad to be back. It's such an amazing group dynamic - people who are or have taught singing, english, elocution, and intruments, plus people who are there jsut because they like to sing, mostly a decade or two older than me... Most of them have known eachother for years and are always making fun of each other, and while people don't seem to mind being personally insulted i am glad we have such a tactful conductor - those musical discussions can get pretty heated. It is so different to sing with a group of people who are brought together because they are not only passionate but educated about music, versus a high school choir which is all about the grade. I love it. Even more, i love being able to share this experience with my brother. Life is wonderful, sometimes, isn't it?

chronicles of humiliation (i.e. school)

So, let's see... Don't tell my parents, but now that it's my car, and my gas... I slow down for speed bumps, stop at stop signs, turn the car off as soon as i park instead of finishing the song, i don't speed (as much)... My first class is an intro to computer course - what's a CPU, how to use excel, basic programming stuff. Vaguely interesting. Actually, i would probably be bored out of my mind except for the fact that the prof reads from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis, which i think is sooo cool. How many people would connect a fifteenth century monk with modern technology? Next is world literature. So far, nothing i haven't heard before. Art. The idea of growing up to be a painter has appealed to me from a young age. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), i have never learned to paint. I can sketch a little, but that is all. Not that this matters, since our first assignment is to draw on a banana. Because it is unconventional, and nothing in this world is worthwhile unless it be nontraditional or unconventional. Another way to be unconventional is to not comb your hair, roll up your pants, and get a tattoo. Or you could cut up random pieces of paper (magazines, cartoons, etc), take black and white photos of them, and then let the roll of film soak for a little while before developing. Or you could interpose shots of slavery and the holocaust with that of cute monkeys and bullfights, since obviously owning a pet is the same thing as genocide. This is also known as art. My most humiliating class is jogging. What kind of word is that, anyway? It always reminds me of hogs, from that nursery rhyme about the farmer coming home again. Why would anyone want to jog? I can walk much faster than i can jog. As a matter of fact, so could a turtle. I have now progressed so that i can run two whole laps without stopping. Are you not incredibly impressed? And i can run one and onehalf more before my legs fall off and i get sick. Yeah for regular exercise!! At least my example must be and incredible encouragement to the rest of the class.

First Day

I have internet!!! Wireless, even. One would think that after fourteen years of going to school, the First Day would lose most of its anticipation and agony. Well, perhaps it has lost some, but i still get an adrenaline rush from it. Actually, i suppose most people don't get an adrenaline rush from school. However, for me, the fear of large groups of people, and of getting lost, and of being late (heightened because of the messed up schedule for Convocation) is quite enough. Needless to say i am not exactly athletic (although i do need three PE credits to graduate - how sucky is that? - so i'm taking jogging this semester). Well, and my brother decided to attend the same school as i, so that's kinda nice. I took him and his roommate to a $3.50 movie this evening (Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull - rather Indy meets X-files, but it's cute). It's so weird being a responsible adult (or even a reasonable facsimile thereof). I do have my own room this year - blue walls ( i'm so sick of white), a proper closet (though, of course, nothing can beat a wardrobe), and three windows. It's an older house, with delightfully creaky stairs, odd corners, and comfortably ugly carpeting. It makes rather a nice change from military housing and cookie cutter development projects. I'm renting it from a lady whose kids are all out of the house at the moment, but she has a gorgeous fluffy cat that already seems awfully fond of sleeping on my stomache, and her eldest son (who lives not ten minutes away) has the most gorgeous dog - some type of husky, i think.

Fleeting Days of Summer

Or is it Fleeing? I've got less than a week left of my internship. It wasn't really at all what i expected (surprise, surprise! i often do try to live life without any expectations at all, but i've found that it falls flat. here's to being wrong!). As far as the logistics of running an archive, and helping people with research, i'm really no further than i was before. However, i've learned a bit about running a business, and the types of relationships that exist between bosses and employees. An academic library doesn't need to make money. A historic park does. This means that the organization and hierarchy of the staff is much more important. It means that the work done is not only "for posterity" but must have some (relatively) immediate purpose and value. It means that we can't just apply for another grant or scholarship, but must make do with what we have and must concentrate out efforts on that which will have the greatest public interests. GSRing has also been (much as i am loathe to admit it) a good experience for me. This may sound strange, but it is the first instance in which i have been able to relate to people as an adult - an equal. In the park offices i am an intern; at Sunday School and in choir i am the youngest by two decades; when living with my parents i am the Pastor's Daughter; at school i am a student. Of course there are always "peers" but that's not quite the same thing. I expect i shall tire of it soon - there are definite advantages to being young and ignorant. The new people being trained put this feeling into sharp relief - both elderly, and rather slow (dunno if it's fear of computers or what) - and i became a voice of experience (by some strange coincidence, i also saw buttercups buzzing after bees). I also learnt that i find 18th-20th century history rather prosaic. People would exclaim at how old an 18th century artifact was, and all i could think was "Wow, that's only a couple hundred years old!" Or they would be looking at a photograph from the late 19th century, and while i was exclaiming over what a recent process photography was, they would be like "Dude! it's in black and white!" It's just... American colonialism has nothing on European Medievalsim, i'm sorry.

"Thou Burning Sun With Golden Beam"

I really wish i could figure out how to get the photos off my cellphone, for even the poorest photo could give you a better idea than my words will. But it was such a magnificent event i simply must do my best to share. Let's see... Well, you know how they tell you the earth is round? I know it is not - they are wrong - for i saw the sun drop off the edge of the earth. Nor was i the only one. There is a small public beach 6-7 miles down the road. A bit of a bay - the land stretches almost to the horizon and then curves in a little, so it is relatively protected from the wind and waves. It is facing West. I like to go there to read after work, and in a pathetic attempt to get tanned. There were two or three other families there that day. I had been hoping to have the beach to myself, so i ignored them, and they returned the favour. The sun began to go down. The blue sky turned orange and purple - it brought to mind bizarre and abstract paintings. The sun was pink and yellow, and the closer it got to the edge of the water, the faster it went down. The light reflected off the water so that it formed a straight path on the waves - if i had so desired, i could have walked on it. I could have reached the edge of the earth and touched the sun. But i was rooted to the ground - we all were. We had all begun to pack (the sun sets late - it was after nine-thirty), but we could not leave. Even the youngest children paused their splashing and screaming. Our breath stopped, or at least it seemed completely irrelevant compared the pulse and rhythm of the waves and the sun. The sky faded, and only the perfectly circular sun was reflected on the water. The path was fading, though the sun was still bright. I wanted to follow so much that i ached. The sun continued to sink. The horizon was a straight line - i believe the earth stopped there. If we were still before now we became statues. The glow of the sand and the green of the grass and trees, the bright and raucous colours of our towels and lawn chairs, all of this seemed unbelievably dull and faded in comparison. It sank, and the path became shorter and shorter. Just the very top was visible, yet still we could not move. What we were hoping for or what we feared, i do not know. But the tension of both was in the air. The sun was gone. It had fallen. It was gone. A collective sigh, and we all looked at each other, curiously, as if we had just been given our vision and yet were surprised to find everything looking so familiar. Ridiculous grins plastered on, we all silently finished packing and staggered back to the parking lot. Not having any small children to pack, i was the first one to leave. We waved and nodded to each other as i headed back to the East.

What Is It With Small Towns? I Have Never Been This Creeped Out In a City.

So, the first time i noticed it was in the stores here. As i mentioned before, they absolutely pounce on you. "Did you see this? Did you know that we can do this? Do you know what a good bargain this is? What's your name? Where you from? What's your SSN?" Okay, they didn't really ask that last question. And then, of course, there was the yarn lady... Another time, i was sitting on a sort of wall right next to the curb, talking to my dad on the phone. Not bothering anybody. A policeman drives up, pulls over, and asks me who i am. I give him my first name, and he drives off w/o another word. A couple weeks later, and i am again talking to my dad on my phone (which is very cute and purple, btw). I am walking up and down a side street, behind a motel and a couple of residences. It's right off one of the main drags. I'm wearing this huge black sweater - it reaches down past my knees and wraps all the way around me - a scarf, and a beat up grey purse. The whole outfit, while comfortable, is quite ugly. This white haired man in a gold pickup drives up and down the street at least half a dozen times, smirking and waving at me each time he passes. It's daylight and there are other people around, but my dad (to whom i'd been relating the whole) insisted that i go to a more popular area. I moved to the main street, and the guy drove around the block a coupla times before leaving. Okay, but the next event is even more amusing. Somebody called the cops on me! I just don't get people here - they must be bored outa their minds. Blame it on the library. I was on the phone again (and i know i'm not the only person here with a cell phone - it's not like it's a bluetooth or anything) talking to someone i hadn't heard from in a while. I sat on the steps of a church, since i could see the water from there, but it was across the road from the park and there wasn't even any sidewalk on this side of the road so i wouldn't be in anybody's way and they wouldn't be in mine. And i was talking on my phone, laughing and smirking, banging away at bugs with my shoe (all the things one normally does while on the phone). I saw some shoes coming down the walk as if from church, and thought "well, that's odd, i didn't think anyone was in there and didn't hear the door." It was a (cute, blonde) policeman - "Do you need help, ma'am?" (Ma'am!!) "Umm, no... Do you want me to leave?" (i assumed it must be loitering - couldn't think of anything else) "Oh, no - you're fine. Some one called and said you were talking to yourself, but i see that you are on your phone." And then he left. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? I tell ya, ya gotta love these small town communities.

Let Me Introduce You to Helen...

She was like "So, when should i come pick you up?" and i was like "I have a car!!" and she was like "Really? Wow!!" and i was like "I have a car, and her name is Helen!" and she was like "Helen?" and i was like "it was on the key chain." And then i was like "i have a car!" Guess what? I have a car!! And it's really cute, too. Well, and it's 1/2 my brother's, but still. Once the first rush of "Ihaveacar!!!EEEEEEE!!!"-ness passes, it becomes a rather melancholy thought. I'm glad of the independence it gives me, and it will make life much more convenient transportation-wise. But... I have many unreasonable fears (i.e. dark and enclosed spaces, People, hairy spiders, numbers) and i know they are silly. My fear of driving, however, has always seemed to me to be eminently reasonable. A slight mistake in a speech, or mathematics problem, can be corrected. A slight mistake in an automobile will at the very least cost thousands, and at worst causes irreparable damage also known as death. The first time i drove was in a huge empty parking lot, with no obstacles. My dad got me into the drivers seat, and i held onto the steering wheel for dear life. My dad put the car in drive, 'cause there was no way in tarnation i was going to let go of that wheel. He said "Why don't you take your foot of the brake?" I squeaked "Because then the car will start moving." A few days later i did eventually get my foot off the brake. The first time the car moved i completely freaked - started weeping so badly i couldn't see. Yup, i was making real progress. My hands would be sore for days after driving from holding the steering wheel so hard i would lose circulation in my fingers. My parents realized that all they'd had to do to cure me of slouching was put me in the driver's seat of a car. They had to threaten to stop my horse-back riding lessons to get me to put my foot on the acceleration pedal, but i refused to go above 15 miles an hour. Although i got my permit when i turned fifteen, i didn't get my full license until my brother had also learned to drive (i was nearly eighteen). Dad kept having to go off on deployments, and though Mom tried, she had enough to deal with without my hysterics. I did manage to learn to drive, and am even comfortable enough that my knuckles stay a nice fleshy colour and my heart is content to plod along normally and my stomache pretends that it's much more comfortable in my abdomen than in my esophagus. But... More than that, a car means i am never going back - that my parent's home is no longer mine, that there is a line drawn between my money and theirs, between my books and my brothers, between my clothes and my mom's. Just like the last time Dad came back from deployment, and he was no longer simply my dad but also a man with faults and irritating habits... My relationship with my family is evolving. And while i know it's necessary, and normal, and probably healthy, it's also awkward and uncomfortable and painful. My brothers are no longer little brats but young men; taller than i, tanner and fitter, and with gorgeous baritone voices. My mom is still my mom, but also a gorgeous lady with a complexion that anyone would envy. A car is one more sign that while they are still and will always be my parents, yet i am also become their equal and must begin to take an equal share in the responsibilities of adulthood. And i think it sucks. Bigtime. So. I have a car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Moving, Part IV

Motta Sant'Anastasia. We just called it Motta (pronounced mohtah), and it was a long while before i realized that wasn't its whole name. It was built around a Norman castle - a Count Roger was responsible for that - on the slopes of Mt. Etna (Sounds quite romantic, doesn't it? Living on a volcano? But just wait until you have to hang your laundry out to dry). We moved into a fourth floor apartment (Sicilian movers, like Sicilian drivers, are something else), and as we weren't supposed to drink the faucet water we had to carry all of our drinking water up. I must have run up and down those stairs several times a day, but it was simply the way things were and i counted it no hardship. I would moan horribly today. Nobody lived on the ground floor. Second floor was also an American family - the Whites. I don't remember much about them, except that they had marital issues, and that Mrs. White taught me basket-weaving. I very much enjoyed it and made several baskets, but have never done it since. Third floor up was an Italian family. They were very friendly, and invited us over a few times. However, since we didn't speak Italian and they didn't speak English, our attempts at polite conversation were somewhat limited. At that point in time, we were the top floor, but i'm sure they have since added another level. Our landlord was also very friendly. He lived a block down the street, and was in the process of finishing another floor on his own residence, for his son and family to live. This was not uncommon - most apartment buildings were owned by families, and if they ran out of room they would simply build another floor. Building-wise, this apartment is my favourite of all the places i have lived so far. Like most Europeans, Italians eschew closets, and so we had the most enchanting wardrobes. I have to say that i do miss those wardrobes. They are so much more attractive than closets, and one is much less tempted to simply throw junk in there and lose it. It also gives one much more freedom as to where one's furniture may be placed. If ever i were to build a house, i would have a pantry and a nice large linen cupboard, but no other closets. The floor was all tile - so easy to clean, though chilly in the winter. It was a point of pride between my brothers and i to never wear socks inside. My mother rolled her eyes, but said as long as we stayed a reasonable distance from the kerosene heater, we could be as cold as we liked. There were no yards, of course. But we had a narrow balcony that went around three sides (bouncy balls, as you may imagine, were in high demand), a couple of trees, and a lovely steep hill to bike down. All of the rooms except the bathroom, and my parent's bedroom, had at least one pair of large glass doors that entered onto the balcony, and which were usually covered by persianas (large, heavy wooden blinds that went on the outside) to protect from the rain or sun. And anyway, my brothers and i preferred to climb out the bathroom window. I finished out my second grade year at the DOD school on base, but going from a school of 26 to a class of 26 and a school of over 300 (which sounds small now) was slightly whelming. We were home-schooled the rest of the time we were there. I still miss that place - Mt. Etna and Catania, the gelato truck, the orchards and the aqueducts, the fresh breads and cheeses, Taormina and Siracusa, Caltagirone and Palermo, Erice and Agrigento, the markets and the ruins... We never did find out what our dog thought of those stairs. He jumped off a couch while stateside awaiting transportation and paralyzed his two back legs. They had to put him down, and it was years before we were able to get another pet. However, there were quite a few strays running around - people who would bring their dogs here, and then decide it was too much work to take them stateside and abandon them. We stayed there for just over a year, and then a house opened up on base. UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

A Perpetuation of the Blonde Stereotype

I'm working at this historic state park place, right? The first European settlers in the area were French voyageurs, and later British troops who took over their fort and then later moved it to a nearby island. A guy is working admission on the island. I heard this story directly from his own lips, and from my own experience working admission, i find this entirely believable. A blonde woman in her late 30's comes up to the booth. After an exchange of greetings, the dialogue goes something like this... "Is this a State Park?" "Yes Ma'am." "Oh... I didn't know that France had states." "Ummm... France doesn't have states." "Oh! Then ---- State runs it for them?" "No, the park is owned by ---- State." "Oh? So, they don't have to pay rent or anything?" "No Ma'am." "Oh. When did the fort stop being French?" "It never was - this was a British Fort." "So, it isn't French?" ...

I forgot my knitting needles

I have a confession to make. (A completely unimportant, uninteresting, dull confession. In fact, it's not even really a confession as much as a statement. A rather dull and unimportant statement. But i thought it would probably be unwise to start out the post as "i have a dull and uninteresting statement to make." Of course, it's probably not very wise of me to be telling you this now, but i just couldn't bring myself to draw the wool over all ya'lls eyes, or whatever the colloquialism is. Where does that come from, anyway? Back to the statement. It does lead to not quite as dull and relatively interesting statements. Well, it tries to. Sorta. Kinda.) I buy my yarn at Walmart. Sometimes Michael's. I'm cheap. I knit often, but although i started a blanket once (it's about two feet long at the moment), i've never finished anything more complicated than a scarf that spirals. But it's a really cool scarf that spirals. So, here i am, stuck in this silly little "City" that has no Walmart, no Target, no Micheal's, or anything. Well, there is a tiny little IGA. The only place for knitting supplies is a small boutique across from one of the ferry lines. It's teal and green. There's a yard in front - fenced in, white picket. The stairs and the long handicap accessible ramp are also fenced in. Since the yard is tiny, it's already looking rather cluttered. Evidently not cluttered enough, as there are assorted shiny lawn ornaments everywhere. The ambiance is similar to that of Harry Potter's Professor Trelawney. Or that of a crow (or a jackdaw? the bird that is obsessed with "shiny!!"). Inside it looks even more like a bird's lair - a very colourful and expensive nest, and about as unorganized as such a nest would be. The insubstantial-looking proprietor greets me but she's on the phone, so I nod, smile, and duck into the first side room. There is barely room for me to turn around - yarn is piled everywhere - but with the window it is bright enough. She comes by and asks me if i knit or crochet. I say i'm a knitter, though not a very good one. She looks pleased and says she doesn't know how to crochet either. I browse, and pick up a book on crocheting. It's in poor condition, but it looks useful. She gives me approximately 45 seconds before checking up on me again. "I thought you said you didn't know how to crochet?" She sounds startled, almost betrayed. I just say that i would like to learn, and stick my nose back in the book. She won't leave. I return to the main room, and wander around. She stands by the register, staring at me. The next side room is just as small as the first, and without the window. She follows me in and starts dusting, careful to keep an eye on me through the small mirror on the wall. This behavior starts to amuse me. I really am interested in crocheting, so i decide to see if i can find any crochet hooks, and move back into the main room. She decides she has finished dusting a few seconds later and returns to the register. In fact, she never lets me out of her sight again. I had been in there for a total of 20 minutes when i left - which is, in a yarn store, like no time at all. My appearance is far from intimidating. Tell me - why??

Penguins, Dante, and Pretentions

Okay, so i am slightly obsessed with Penguin Classics. I love the introductions, and the endnotes, and the commentaries, and everything. I also think they smell better than most any other brand. And so i saw Dante's Paradiso - Penguin edition - in the miserable little excuse for a bookstore they have here. (I also saw The Three Musketeers, but it turns out that was a Puffin, and abridged. Disgusting.) I bought it, since in spite of my medieval minor i have never read more than a few excerpts of the Commedia, which is really rather pathetic, i think. And since i read everything else backwards, i might as well read this backwards also. Have i mentioned how much i love Penguin? They have the Italian right across from an English translation, and although my Latin is extremely poor i still find it helpful. And it just sounds better in Italian. Anyway, so here i am, reading the ultimate Romance (or one of them, anyway, though i can't say i'm hugely fond of Milton). My roommate, who prefers to read the Romance novels that are actually in the Romance section (and i mean no slight to her intelligence, though i find her taste lacking), sees this with as much disgust as i view her romance novels. She practically sneered. It was highly entertaining, and i'm ashamed to say rather startling. Isn't that just...odd? To sneer at Dante? Of course, i suppose it is just as odd to sneer at romance novels. If i ever own a bookstore, i will reclaim the word "Romance." Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, Elizabeth Gaskell, John Milton, Connie Willis, John Donne, Kazuo Ishiguro, Dante Alighieri, C.S. Lewis, Mark Twain, Peter Abelard...