Fashion or Faux Pas?

On Thursday of last week, I was attending to some business in the school library when I saw this painting for the first time. I asked Fred, our school's media specialist/doer of technological hodgepodgery, about it. He told me that in the '50's, Cedar High used to buy art work for the school at local art shows and the school had acquired it in 1956. An art researcher studying the artist had recently contacted the school to find out more about the painting as the name (The Yellow Screen) was listed in a book somewhere but the researcher knew nothing of the subject. Fred took the painting from the food's room where it had been hanging for years to photograph it and send to the researcher. What I found so interesting about the painting, and why I am blogging about it now, is that though I had never seen the painting before, I had on the same outfit as the woman. Down to the linked bracelet. While hers is more chunky, and my shirt doesn't have as large of ruffles, one must admit that it is a little startling to see your outfit on a painting almost 55 years old. When I pointed it out to my colleagues, they commented on the timelessness of fashion. When I pointed it out to my students, who were doing research in the library that day, they gave me pitying looks and comments about how I needed to get some new clothes. Ah, the perspective of youth. (But really, do I need to get new clothes?)

A Lot of Hot Air

On sheets, curtains, and mattresses hot air balloons are a little cheesy. In the air, they are nothing short of spectacular.

Wildfire

In August the Mill Creek wildfire spread suddenly to New Harmony, a small town about 20 miles south of Cedar City. For three days the air was full of non-stop campfire smell (which doesn't smell so great when you're not actually camping) and perpetual coughing, runny noses, and sneezing. Here are some pictures I took of what Cedar City had to deal with during those days (though not even close to what the residents of New Harmony and Kanarraville went through).
The ash that was deposited on my car - and in our lungs - when I came out of work one day.



Wildfires do make for pretty sunrises and sunsets...as long as the fire is far away from where I'm watching the sunset!

Dabbling with ink

This weekend I attended for the fourth time the creative writing conference put on for teachers every year by SUU and had a ball. The conference centers on ways for teachers to incorporate creative writing into the classroom. I center on having an excuse to listen to professional writers who teach at major universities and getting to do my own writitng. Yesterday there were two writers that were particularly interesting to listen to: Simone Di Piero from Stanford Univ (poetry) and Alison Deming from the Univ of Az (creative nonfiction). Today we got to hear Nola Lodge from the U of U, an Oneida Indian from right outside of my hometown of Green Bay, WI, who discussed reacing American Indian students through creative writing.

I've been in a writing black-hole since December when I submitted some poems to a writing competition. I felt like they were the best poems I'd ever written, and not being picked (though I knew it would be a long shot anyway) as even a top 50 finalist was, I guess, more discouraging than I expected it would be. I didn't lose sleep or shed tears or anything, but I haven't written anything since. Until yesterday. And I only wrote what was asked from all 30 of us attending the conference. But it felt good. I'm not done with the creative nonfiction piece yet (which I will share), but here is the poem. Interestingly enough, Mr. Di Piero didn't seem to like it that much. But it didin't faze me like I thought it would. I told myself in the shaking moments before I volunteered myself that he was the published expert and it was an opportunity to find out what I could do better. But Danielle Dubrasky, who was my peotry teacher at SUU and who puts the conference together, and who was Di Piero's student at Stanford, did. Rejection from one, validation from another. I hate Emily Dickenson. Others say she is the best America has to offer. So what does it mean? I can't easily do tricks with words the way others, including the college students sitting behind me, can. But I have something to say. You may or may not like it, but saying it is the important part. What do you have to say? If you started a poem with the same first two lines as mine (the assignment all in attendance were given), how would your poem turn out?

Odysseus told his men

to plug their ears with wax,

keeping for himself

the song worth dying for.

I would have done it,

resented him for asking

because he would have known I

would be the one to concede,

my ears stuffed dumly,

sitting on the wooden deck waiting.

I would hate him right then

for my future later

without that song,

telling myself I could

remember better,

deserve more those notes

though my resolve to stand

tied alone

would have jumped before

we had lost sight of the shore.

President Obama's Speech to Students

The calls started coming in today at the school I teach at from parents threatening to pull their kids out of school during President Obama's speech to students this Tuesday. The principal, my boss, wore each call on his face as he, a few other teacher, and myself discussed the negative and downright hostile responses by so many in our community about this. I feel that one of my biggest obstacles as a teacher is student apathy, so am not opposed to a pep talk to students, but also know many won't listen because of the policital orientation - and I hate to say in some situations, race - of our President. Would the same response be happening if a sports star were coming to the school to talk about the same issues?

What does bother me about the manner in which this speech is occuring is that it is being done during the school day - parents should have the right and privilege to watch this speech with their students at home and discuss it with them. But my bigger concern is the divisiveness these parents are ultimately teaching their children by refusing to allow their children to listen to a person who politically is different from them but has the same educational goals for their kids, and his own, that they do. Instead of pulling their child out of school, why not go with them to school that day and sit in during the speech? Use this as a chance to start a dialog and teach their children how to listen to others and come up with their own conclusions? This is a great chance to talk with their children about what they agree with, and also what they disagree with in the speech. These parents fear possible political agendas being forced on their children but are turning their back on an oppertunity, if they pull their children out, to both talk with their children about opposing viewpoints, but more likely on a chance to find a commonality with the "other side." Becuase in all actuality, this speech will most likely include no discussion of health care plans or wars or the economy, information that would be over the heads of school aged children. Republicans and democrats alike care about the education their children and grandchildren receive. Can we not, for 50 minutes, sit down together on the common ground of the value of education, our children with us, and encourage them to be fair minded, goal oriented students who should value the precious education they receive?

Quick! Push the skeleton back in!

Walking in the front door of my house on a warm late summer evening when the front porch light is on is like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where blondy has to walk through the unlit secret passage way, her feet crunching something the whole way, until she is able to light a lamp and discover every inch of every surface is covered in very large bugs. Except at my house it's moths. Moths everywhere. They cling to every inch. And as hard as you may try to leave them on the outside, some are going to get through the door with you. Then it turns into the scene from Tommy Boy, where Tommy leaves the window open and then Richard is chasing moths around the cheap hotel room with a vacuum cleaner sucking them up. Incidentally, who's ever had a vacuum cleaner in their hotel room?

The first full week of school is almost complete and I am alredy exhausted. Not to the point where I am getting to work late yet (the year is still young), but I get home and plant myself on my bed at 6 and stay there all night long fighting sleep while cradling my computer in my lap. I fill the time by playing solitaire, checking Facebook and other blogs, playing more solitaire, hidden object games, or doing what I did last night: editing my old blog posts. I officiall reached a new level of nerdiness while cleaning up posts 51-117. Like anyone will even read them again, but for some reason I just had to do it. I've thought about having my blog posts printed - it is a good record of what I've done for the last two years, and since I've gotten out of the habit of scrapbooking anything about my life, the blog is a close replacement when you add in the fancy backgrounds and such. I would be mortified if I had printed my blog without editing it. I was surprised at all of the capitalization, sentence structure, punctuation, sentence fragment and style errors I had! I start a lot of senteneces with 'so' and 'but', which is OK sometimes if you know what you are doing, but apparently I don't. I changed posts that had now cryptic messsages to other bloggers (OK, mostly Megan) or references to my sisters' blog posts that are now long lost in

the indexes of months past. To give myself some credit, I have gotten better about writing presentably as the months and years have gone on, but I am haunted by my mumblings that were still so very much in sloppy-copy format but my finger still clicked on the "publish post" button. The SHAME! Did blogging become more about the reward of comments than the quality of content? Like Skinner's experiment with pigeons? Push the button, get a treat? And I call myself and English teacher, I who chide my students about the revising they rarely do! I was about to write a post making fun of all the people on Facebook and blogs (NONE of which are written by people I have listed on my sidebar - I promise!) who write so poorly and don't seem to notice or care, only to be humbled while looking at the skeletons in my own writing closet. What is it that they say about pointing fingers? Something about being sucked up a vacuum tube in a cheap hotel with an undisclosed number of fingers pointing back at you?

You may want to think twice before wearing the color purple any time soon.

There is a long time saying in Green Bay that the G on the Packer helmet stands for "God's Team." There is a more recent saying (among other things) in Green Bay that Brett Favre is a lousy, stinkin' traitor for signing yesterday with the mortal enemies, the Minnesota Vikings, of the Pack.
There was a tornado outside of Minneapolis today.
Lesson: Don't mess with God's Team.

Waddling Cats Make Lousy Drivers

I watched a cat waddle down the sidewalk on my way to check the mail this evening. It wasn't the graceful hip swaying saunter that most cats have - more like a drunken stumble down the yellow line. But when I got close, the cat had no problem running away, so I can only assume that the cat didn't get giddy off of sour milk from the neighbors garbage can.

This makes me think of the driving ability of the jack-a (not the neighborhood one) who hit my car in the high school parking lot last Tuesday. Both drivers side doors. And then ran away. I mean drove away. He or she couldn't see strait enough to get into the parking space, stumbled into my car, and then had no problem driving away. But since I didn't notice it until late that evening, I had left the scene of the crime, the police couldn't do anything really except make a damages claim, and I am left paying the deductible. Which is a lot when you don't have anything. And for most of the people I know on most days even when you do. But I'm lucky that's all I have to pay, since the damages are $2,479. Do you know how much cat food that it? It was probably a student (volleyball and football practice were going on and the lot was full) with either no license, no brain or natural driving ability, or no decency. OK, definitely no decency. I like to imagine myself approaching him (or her) and calling him a coward to his face in front of his peers, and then cursing him with never getting a girlfriend. EV-ER. Cuz that's like totally the biggest deal in high school. At least, I think. But I'm too tired now to think clearly. Maybe I should get behind the wheel of a car. Or at least strut my way to the mailbox and look for that cat - he might need someone to help him walk him home.

Vive La Fiesta!

As a last enthusiastic "hurrah!" of summer, I traveled to Oxnard, California to visit my brother before school starts and I am unable to go anywhere. Mark is stationed at the Ventura Co/Port Hueneme Navy Base there. This base is strictly for the Navy Seabees (Construction Battalions = CB = Seabee) so there are no ships, though it is on the coast. During my visit, he marched in the Santa Barbara Old Spanish Days Festival parade. I don't get to see my brother in action much, and unfortunately miss out on more deployments and graduations and promotions than I actually get to see. Needless to say, it was a great privilege to see Mark in his summer dress uniform and do his thing. He really does make me proud, showing a maturity and a respectful seriousness that a lot of the other guys (and gals) he works with don't have or don't understand much about in both the way they do their job and the way they treat others around them. Here are some highlights of visiting with him, the festival parade, and the Santa Barbara area (I love LOVE taking picture, so if you get bored you're just boring).


Mark asked me to straiten the medals on his uniform. He meant absolutely nothing by asking me becuase he was running late and I was sitting around. But I felt very honored to be doing it for some reason. I had to take a picture!

The honor guard on their way to the parade staging grounds

Doesn't he look swell?

Mark's girlfriend's parents - well, you can't really see her mom I guess.

This is one of the largest equestrian parades in the country. And boy, did it ever entertain! I've never seen so many horses in one place at one time before, and the beauty of these animals is unbelievable. These horses were ready to dance, and most of the Spanish groups coming through had their own mariachi bands following to which the horses would prance to the beat set by the musicians. It really was something to see!

For a few dollars you could buy a fiesta egg - a hollowed out egg shell, filled with confetti, wrapped in bright tissue paper. And then you crack them on your head. Vive la fiesta!
I watched the end of the parade from a hill above the parade starting point. There were great views of the city and the marina, and after meeting up with Mark we walked the beach, the pier, and State Street where festival revelers gathered, caping off the night with some Indian food (though just about every other restaurant downtown had Mexican place specials for the celebrations). This festival is a week long, and I wish I could have seen the dancing competitions, music exhibitions, the rodeos, the horse shows, or even the carnival. But the little time I had to be there was totally worth it.

I love parked bycicles! These were on the SB pier.

Finding Yourself at Ground Zero

I'm going to apologize right now for the bathroom humor, but while at the movie theater last week I found myself in a smelly situation that I'm sure is not unique to me. You know when you walk into a stinky public bathroom and there are 10 stalls and you just so happen to walk into ground zero? A zillion (three) things go through your (my) head: Be mature and just suck it up while sucking up as little fresh oxygen as possible; stay and have the person who walks in behind you think that it was your doing; or get out before you loose your popcorn and not be concerned with issues of maturity and the fact that everyone has been in been the cause of a nose wrinkling of the odorous kind (even if the last time you will claim was when you were in diapers and the only reason you have to claim it is because your cousins David, Daryl, and Darin were on the other end and bring it up at opportune moments).

One of these moments happened to a friend of mine. We'll call her "Erica". She had a delicious birthday meal at the Olive Garden. But about halfway home "Erica" was feelin' the rumblin' in the tumblin, if ya know what I mean. So she pulls over at a rest stop on the interstate - because it's an emergency and it's safe in it's anonymity. Except that it's not. Because when she walks in, there are only two other people in there who just so happen to be a former student of hers (she's a teacher, like me) and the student's mother. And what were they doing there? Getting ready for homecoming, naturally! Because this girl is, with the help of her mother, trying to fool her father into thinking that she was going to the homecoming dance dressed the way she was when she left the house instead of the way she was looking when she left the rest-stop. And as "Erica" walks in to take care of business, there is a definite acknowledgement of the presence of the other - a conversation, in fact. So there "Erica" sits after she makes her way to the furthest stall possible, wondering how she is to deal with the explosive situation that she finds herself in. And what's worse is, while she is deliberating on how to forage the last shreds of her dignity and leave with as few losses as possible while her assailant looms ever closer, fate throws yet another curve ball she was not expecting: the student tries to have a conversation with "Erica," her former teacher, while she is suffering with the enormity of her decision while seated on the throne. I would imagine the student felt uncomfortable, wondering why her teacher is 'going' without really going. But there poor "Erica" sat, the situation ever more pressing, for what felt like forever, having a conversation over the bathroom stalls with her former student and her former student's mother, all while trying to hold it in while coming up with - at best - how she will manage her speedy retreat, all the while knowing that she is a) dropping a bomb on everyone (creating 'ground zero', if you will), b)everyone will know it was her, and c) she will have to walk past the suspecting unsuspecting to make that very retreat. What's a girl to do? Luckily, as "Erica" likes to tell herself and must, in all actuality, believe in order to move past this incident, another person did walk in and there is a chance the two makeup brush holding women at the sinks in the rest stop bathroom getting ready for Homecoming 2007 thought the things they heard were coming from this new woman, OR that the flush of toilets drowned out the sound of "Erica's" humiliating defeat with their swirling cascades of water. But "Erica" will never know for sure, and neither will I. But for her sake, I sure hope this case of mistaken identity bait and switch worked. Because "Erica" and I look a lot alike. And that is DEFINITELY not something that would EVER happen to me. I just don't do those sorts of things.

Silence of the Donkey's

There was a glorious lightning storm west of town a few evenings ago. My housemate Lisa and I took a drive to catch a better view. My eyes celebrated the unusual patterns the lightning bolts made. The scent of fresh cut hay and bulging rainclouds wafted through my olfactory system. My ears delighted in the soft sounds of the breeze rustling the wheat grass and the ever so soft hawing of the neighborhood jackass. No, really. Someone - probably even more than one someone - near my house owns a donkey. It wakes Laura and Lisa up in the middle of the night sometimes. But what exactly do you do about a rude jackass? An obnoxious jackass? A loudmouth of a jackass? It's not like you can go to the jackass's mom and complain to her...
When I first moved into my current house I slept in a different bedroom. It was upstairs and at the front. Because I like fresh breezes blowing on my face as I sleep (is that a sign of being a romantic? I like to think it is), I would often have my window open for most of the year. Even in winter it would still be open a crack. But in the winter, sound seems to carry farther then it does otherwise. And that's when the lambs would wake me up. Can you imagine being woken up at 3 in the morning to the sound of lambs? Try picturing it. Go ahead...I'll wait. It's cree-peee, right! So now be the person who (because said cold air carries said sound so well) thinks the lambs are lost somewhere on your street and opens the front door to find them when she can't see them out the screen on her window because her nose is in the way. But NOTHING IS THERE! The crying of the ghost sheep is the only thing that is there, except now for me in my pajamas. But what do you do? How do you obtain the silence of the lambs? It's not like the kids who are having a raucous party down the street and you "invite" the cops. Who you gonna call to silence the ghost lambs? And you better not say "GhostBusters!" Grow up. Some things are just not a laughing matter.

Do you think the temple could make an exception and allow this?

Seinfeld, Again. Already.

As I mid-power walked-jogged-walked this evening (each done seperately, by the way, and not the jogrun some fools can be spotted doing from time to time while I sit in my moving car and laugh at them), I heard a dog, a horse, and a sheep. I guess the cows were on strike. But the ants weren't. I heard them crunch as I stepped on them. At the time, crushing 3,000 swarming red ants with the bottom of my shoe seemed like an awesom idea. In retrospect, I could have made better use of my time. Doing what I am not sure. But the couple I didn't see sharing the sidewalk with me sure thought I was strange. But I'm not. I'm just a girl living in the country, like them. But I don't like country music like they probably do. Welllll, not usually. I did go through a country music faze when I first needed wide open spaces. But after I had had room to make my big mistakes for a while, the novelty wore off. What hasn't worn off is my annoyance with the travel company that I went to Europe with a month and a half ago. When I called about $250 that I was supposed to be refunded but have yet to see, the woman told me that it hadn't been requested yet. "Requested?" I said, "Shouldn't that be automatically sent if I paid for something I didn't get?" (as she talked over me). "It's not how our system is set up," was her reply (while I didn't talk over her). Some people can be so rude. I mean, the least the girl could have done was tell me she forgot! I might have rolled my eyes but I would have been able to sympathize - who HASn't "forgotten" to give someone $250 dollars! I can honestly say that if I had a business, my system would be set up better. AND that if I owe you money and haven't given it to you, it's becuase I have forotten. But only trust me as much as you can trust a person who steps on swarming ants for fun. And maybe not even that much.

The Seinfeld Post

So I really want to be writing something really profound right now. But I got nothin'. I'm just sitting at the kitchen counter taking a (completely un-posed) picture of the cherries I'm eating while essentially wasting precious time surfing the internet (it always seems like a good idea at the time, doesn't it?!) when I should be reading. I have only finished one book all summer long, and it was AWEFUL! But I kept on reading it...and reading it...and reading it. And the author is apparently a bestselling author. Bleh. I had more original conversations with my friend Megan's 2 1/2 year old daughter this weekend than the writing in this book had. But tomorrow should be ok if I can get to bed at a reasonable time instead of blogging about nothing. I'm going to a play at the Tony Award winning Shakespeare Festival tomorrow night. I hope it doesn't rain. It's predicted. Scateredly. I made cookies tonight. They are good. But the cherries are better. I made the cookies instead of going on a power walk - but I don't do the swingy arm thing, so maybe it's only a mid-power walk - because it started to drizzle when I opened the door. And since in rained all day I didn't want to find myself in a wet t-shirt contest somewhere on Midvalley Road. It didn't end up raining, but now I've got these cookies. They're good. They should win a Tony Award for "Best alternative to a mid-power walk." But these cherries I'm eating are fantastic! I should really get to bed. It's 12:38. I hope it rains tomorrow. But not at night becuase I'm going to a play. In an outdoor theater. As You Like It. Wouldn't it be aweful if I didn't like it? Kind of like a trick. Becuase you went becuase the title tells you you will like it. Kind of like Burger King's slogan "Your way, right away," even though I have never gotten anything right away at Burger King in Cedar City. But I do like their burgers, which is good because it was made my way. So I hope the play is good too, like my burgers. These cherries are good...

Back in the Badger State

Well, it's that time of year again when people remember how much they like their families and get together outside to grill up some bratwurst. I, like so many before me, trekked east to the Midwest (how's that for an oxymoron!) to enjoy the best about being part of a Forever Midwestern American Family. I ate my body weight in bratwurst, pizza, and mom's chocolate walnut chocolate chip cookies (not an oxymoron). I got annoyed with a sibling, played with the grandkinds (my parents, not mine), was cultured and naturalized, shopped 'til Idropped, and visited with a lot of good and well-established family friends (I wanted to say 'old' just now, but I was going more for the idea that they've been friends for a long long time and less about how many years they have been cutting their finger nails). I went for as many walks as I could, and rummaged through old family pictures while Mom and Dad told us family history stories and relationships. I slept in three different beds, and held three different darling babies. I enjoyed sunsets over Lake Michigan and walking through misty rain. I spent quality alone time with my parents and all of my siblings. I laughed so hard I cried and was sad so hard I cried. I saw funny faces, annoyed faces, pretty faces, and handsome faces, and faces that love each other. No matter what else happened or will happen this summer, I got to spend some of it with my family. And THAT is priceless.

Gosh, I love 'em!