August 30, 2010
If my parent-of-a-high-school-athlete learning curve were any steeper, I’d need to buy some pitons and an ice pick. This ascent has left me breathless, to say the least. And, while I couldn’t be more thrilled by the prospect of watching Allison play volleyball for her new high school’s team, the package that accompanies such an honor is feeling a bit like a booby prize at the moment. And I’m the booby.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you just really didn’t get the joke? When you wondered if you’d awakened in Communist Russia or discovered that someone had moved all of your dishes into the wrong cabinet while you were sleeping? Well, okay. I can relate to the “dish” thing, but I once again seem to be in foreign territory these days and I’m not really sure what to do.
Let me provide the back story. Mark and I attended Allison’s volleyball-team parent meeting last week. I figured it was a time to find out just what the heck a libero was or how it is that those girls manage to get their shorts on without a can of Pam nearby. Turns out, it was a time to sign checks and buy apparel and order team photos and sign up to bring jello salad and granola bars to the team luncheon. In short, it was a time to find out how most other parents live. Giving and giving and giving. And all with a smile and your eyes on the competition.
In this case, the competition was this super mother, who fervently spoke of the joy that it brought her to provide last year’s Freshman team with 17 pre-game-day meals,—SEVENTEEN!-- not to mention healthy snacks and refreshing bottled on the day of their game. This was her pitch for getting one of us to become the new Freshman team parent. That’s like having a Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist ask for volunteers to take over the school newsletter. Given that most of the Freshman parents were men and one of the moms was in her pajamas, I figured we were safe from the prospect of making 17 meals for a bevy of teenaged girls in spandex.
Apparently, I was wrong.
And I can’t tell you how devastated I feel right now. I know, I know. You’d think I would be happy to know that, in the next month or so, someone else would be feeding dinner to Allison at least 17 times, freeing me to do little or nothing with my post-work time. But I grew up in a family-dinner household. In fact, family dinners were one of the highlights of my childhood, even if my mom lacked mad skillz in the food-preparation department. I cherish those dinner-time conversations of my youth, and have done everything within my power to continue that tradition into my adulthood.
I can count on my hands the number of times when the Holt household has not gathered, full strength, at our dinner table each night. And I’m pretty sure my kids have come to expect dinner together as the norm.
Between Allison’s 17-game schedule (for which I will happily and temporarily adjust our dinner-time routine) to the 17 team dinners that now teeter on the edge of my calendar, all four of us lose a little something. Heck, even Hobbes the Hobo dog will miss out in the coming month, a month of few home-cooked meals and much driving around between sports venues and teammates’ homes. I am baffled that no one else seems to protest the ease with which such family time is taken away.
I can only assume it means that family dinners have taken a back seat to something else entirely. And that scares me just a little.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Confessions of a Nature Dweeb
August 29, 2010
Occasionally, I get razzed from my friends for my nature-based online observations. The razzing is always good-natured (pun possibly intended), but there is, nonetheless, a certain, dark undercurrent running through their commentary, the suggestion that I am somehow quaint or out of touch or maybe even a bit touched, to use an old-fashioned term.
But, really, how can I ignore the moment I just shared on our patio with a ruby-throated hummingbird that hovered just inches away from me? How can I shake from my memory that low hum his wings made as they flapped faster than I could possibly register with my aging eyes?
The thing that nature always delivers to me is hope, something homo sapiens can’t seem to tap with much consistency. Sure, I draw energy and enthusiasm for the future from my students, family and friends. And my confidence in the future almost always is strengthened by the feel-good stories that appear in Section B of the Sunday paper, where the focus regularly turns to those who foster good, not guns.
But, in the long run, these human high points can’t hold a candle to what my backyard buddies and birdies offer me. I don’t say this naively, either. I “get” that the daily life of of birds and bugs and beasts of burden is just that, a burden. I realize that, for every wing-flapping fledgling that squawks for its ma, there are a dozen predators just looking for the right moment to pounce. This non-human world can be downright inhuman. It is violent, dangerous and rife with parasites.
But it is rife with “aha” moments, too. It’s as though all of the natural world abides by St. Paul’s words “Do not let the sun set on your anger.” For, each evening, every bug, bird and beast seems to let out a collective “Uncle!” calling a truce that will be honored all night long, while each settles into its sleeping quarters (minus their nocturnal cousins, of course, who take their recess while the sun is still high in the sky).
Therein lies the hope. The consistency and unshakeable rhythm of the natural world—along with its seasonal flashes of color, cohabitation, and capitulation—brings me great heaps of comfort in a world where humans so often seem unable to follow the lead of their “lesser” cousins.
Occasionally, I get razzed from my friends for my nature-based online observations. The razzing is always good-natured (pun possibly intended), but there is, nonetheless, a certain, dark undercurrent running through their commentary, the suggestion that I am somehow quaint or out of touch or maybe even a bit touched, to use an old-fashioned term.
But, really, how can I ignore the moment I just shared on our patio with a ruby-throated hummingbird that hovered just inches away from me? How can I shake from my memory that low hum his wings made as they flapped faster than I could possibly register with my aging eyes?
The thing that nature always delivers to me is hope, something homo sapiens can’t seem to tap with much consistency. Sure, I draw energy and enthusiasm for the future from my students, family and friends. And my confidence in the future almost always is strengthened by the feel-good stories that appear in Section B of the Sunday paper, where the focus regularly turns to those who foster good, not guns.
But, in the long run, these human high points can’t hold a candle to what my backyard buddies and birdies offer me. I don’t say this naively, either. I “get” that the daily life of of birds and bugs and beasts of burden is just that, a burden. I realize that, for every wing-flapping fledgling that squawks for its ma, there are a dozen predators just looking for the right moment to pounce. This non-human world can be downright inhuman. It is violent, dangerous and rife with parasites.
But it is rife with “aha” moments, too. It’s as though all of the natural world abides by St. Paul’s words “Do not let the sun set on your anger.” For, each evening, every bug, bird and beast seems to let out a collective “Uncle!” calling a truce that will be honored all night long, while each settles into its sleeping quarters (minus their nocturnal cousins, of course, who take their recess while the sun is still high in the sky).
Therein lies the hope. The consistency and unshakeable rhythm of the natural world—along with its seasonal flashes of color, cohabitation, and capitulation—brings me great heaps of comfort in a world where humans so often seem unable to follow the lead of their “lesser” cousins.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Smells Like Teen Spirit, Among Other Things
August 26, 2010
Sometimes I think I’d be willing support a smaller stimulus package, at least when it comes to working in a high school. I’m not talking money, though. I’m talking about actual stimulation. Two weeks into work again and I’m reminded every two or three minutes that a high school is a stimulating place to work. Maybe too stimulating, at least when it comes to the senses.
“Smells Like Teen Spirit”
For one, the library’s computer lab smells like an armpit half of the time. I know. I know. Maybe it’s the humidity or the new carpet, but I’m pretty sure it’s all those sticky, stinky kids frantically typing their essays. Which, by the way, also can stink, at times. My nose gets quite a noseful working in a high school. The other day one section of the library smelled like sour milk, not one of this fall’s featured scents at Dillard’s perfume counter. While I started crying over spilled milk, another teacher suggested that the culprit was…not milk. And so, I kept right on crying, just because.
“The Sound of Mucus. . . ”
To be stuck in a hallway at passing time is like finding yourself on the New York subway at the end of the workday. It’s a little scary and antlike, with everyone skittering about, chattering and whooping, bumping and snorting. To move successfully in such an atmosphere requires Kung Fu focus and the ability to create the illusion of both determination and destiny.
The same can hold true in the library during lunch. While I relish the fact that so many kids want to hang out with us during their sliver of mid-day free time, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind tuning out their voluminous voices at times. And yet, I seldom give in to that urge to hush them, instead drawing odd comfort from their boisterous laughter and interactions, glad that they can let loose a little, even in a place traditionally known for its pin-drop silence.
A Sight for Really Sore Eyes
Finally, teens offer a daily feast for the eyes, although an occasional famine would be welcomed. What they wear is so closely tied into who they see themselves as—whereas, what I wear is closely tied to what fits and isn’t too wrinkly—that it makes me think more teens should be wearing glasses.
Most teens at my school, though, dress surprisingly simply, keeping it crisp and clean.
But there are those whose clothes either leave little to the imagination or much to be desired. I have never gotten the whole “sagging” thing. All I can figure is that there are a lot of teenaged boys out there with some serious thigh burn and diaper rash. As for the baby-doll look, let’s just say that I’ve yet to see an actual baby doll—let alone a young girl--whose looks have been improved by fashions that say “I just LOOK like I’m pregnant!”
So why do I keep coming back every day? For a few reasons, I suppose. For one, I tend to smell, speak too loudly and wear clothes that may very well be missing a button or have a slight tear under the armpit. For another, I just really like these kids. They are funny and varied and complicated and strange and smart and. . . well, surely I can forgive them the occasional fart or outburst or fashion faux pas when, more often than not, they are delivering the goods with panache and pizzazz, two things that never go out of style.
Sometimes I think I’d be willing support a smaller stimulus package, at least when it comes to working in a high school. I’m not talking money, though. I’m talking about actual stimulation. Two weeks into work again and I’m reminded every two or three minutes that a high school is a stimulating place to work. Maybe too stimulating, at least when it comes to the senses.
“Smells Like Teen Spirit”
For one, the library’s computer lab smells like an armpit half of the time. I know. I know. Maybe it’s the humidity or the new carpet, but I’m pretty sure it’s all those sticky, stinky kids frantically typing their essays. Which, by the way, also can stink, at times. My nose gets quite a noseful working in a high school. The other day one section of the library smelled like sour milk, not one of this fall’s featured scents at Dillard’s perfume counter. While I started crying over spilled milk, another teacher suggested that the culprit was…not milk. And so, I kept right on crying, just because.
“The Sound of Mucus. . . ”
To be stuck in a hallway at passing time is like finding yourself on the New York subway at the end of the workday. It’s a little scary and antlike, with everyone skittering about, chattering and whooping, bumping and snorting. To move successfully in such an atmosphere requires Kung Fu focus and the ability to create the illusion of both determination and destiny.
The same can hold true in the library during lunch. While I relish the fact that so many kids want to hang out with us during their sliver of mid-day free time, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind tuning out their voluminous voices at times. And yet, I seldom give in to that urge to hush them, instead drawing odd comfort from their boisterous laughter and interactions, glad that they can let loose a little, even in a place traditionally known for its pin-drop silence.
A Sight for Really Sore Eyes
Finally, teens offer a daily feast for the eyes, although an occasional famine would be welcomed. What they wear is so closely tied into who they see themselves as—whereas, what I wear is closely tied to what fits and isn’t too wrinkly—that it makes me think more teens should be wearing glasses.
Most teens at my school, though, dress surprisingly simply, keeping it crisp and clean.
But there are those whose clothes either leave little to the imagination or much to be desired. I have never gotten the whole “sagging” thing. All I can figure is that there are a lot of teenaged boys out there with some serious thigh burn and diaper rash. As for the baby-doll look, let’s just say that I’ve yet to see an actual baby doll—let alone a young girl--whose looks have been improved by fashions that say “I just LOOK like I’m pregnant!”
So why do I keep coming back every day? For a few reasons, I suppose. For one, I tend to smell, speak too loudly and wear clothes that may very well be missing a button or have a slight tear under the armpit. For another, I just really like these kids. They are funny and varied and complicated and strange and smart and. . . well, surely I can forgive them the occasional fart or outburst or fashion faux pas when, more often than not, they are delivering the goods with panache and pizzazz, two things that never go out of style.
Mind Games and 30th Reunions
August 26, 2010
I’m teetering on the edge of my 30th high-school reunion and it’s starting to mess with my mind. I can only imagine what the dream detritus will be, after it’s all over.
For now, though, I’m having fun on Facebook reconnecting with former classmates, reminding ourselves why we enjoyed each other’s company or, in other instances, wondering why it took so long to cross paths with each other in the first place.
Got a funny phone call this summer from three former classmates who were having their own mini reunion along the shores of some lake in Michigan. In that loud, funny, speaker-phone call, we laughed about some of our dusty times together. In particular, we recalled the time as seniors when we put bandanas over our faces, hopped in a car and raced through the drivers’-ed course, upsetting the delicate balance of the freshmen drivers, whose sweaty palms glistened and gripped even more as we weaved between them.
I expect that this phone call was just a sample of what’s to come in a month—heaps of funny, fuzzy flashbacks shared against a backdrop of lukewarm buffet-line food and keg beer. And, while the numbers may be off a bit, I’m also predicting that those who attend our 30th will mostly be glad to be alive and upright. It won’t be like a 10th-year reunion, when people are still too young to appreciate time with each other without giving in to the temptation of showing off their swag. Granted, at our 30th, there will be plenty of swag, but it’ll be in the way we walk, not in the way we talk.
No, I think we’ll just be glad to be together, sharing stories and reconnecting. How many of those stories are actually true or accurate, I cannot say. But they’ll be fun to tell, anyway.
I’m teetering on the edge of my 30th high-school reunion and it’s starting to mess with my mind. I can only imagine what the dream detritus will be, after it’s all over.
For now, though, I’m having fun on Facebook reconnecting with former classmates, reminding ourselves why we enjoyed each other’s company or, in other instances, wondering why it took so long to cross paths with each other in the first place.
Got a funny phone call this summer from three former classmates who were having their own mini reunion along the shores of some lake in Michigan. In that loud, funny, speaker-phone call, we laughed about some of our dusty times together. In particular, we recalled the time as seniors when we put bandanas over our faces, hopped in a car and raced through the drivers’-ed course, upsetting the delicate balance of the freshmen drivers, whose sweaty palms glistened and gripped even more as we weaved between them.
I expect that this phone call was just a sample of what’s to come in a month—heaps of funny, fuzzy flashbacks shared against a backdrop of lukewarm buffet-line food and keg beer. And, while the numbers may be off a bit, I’m also predicting that those who attend our 30th will mostly be glad to be alive and upright. It won’t be like a 10th-year reunion, when people are still too young to appreciate time with each other without giving in to the temptation of showing off their swag. Granted, at our 30th, there will be plenty of swag, but it’ll be in the way we walk, not in the way we talk.
No, I think we’ll just be glad to be together, sharing stories and reconnecting. How many of those stories are actually true or accurate, I cannot say. But they’ll be fun to tell, anyway.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Tragic Tales from the Teachers' Lounge
August 23, 2010
Some teachers are pretty decent cooks. These are the ones I hope show up on the first Friday of each month, when the East High staff has a potluck lunch. Whatever they bring on these Fridays,—from Julie’s crack bars to Andrea’s cheesecakes, Laurie’s salsas to Chica’s strawberry cake—their offerings automatically up the “Cheetos” ante tenfold, and the rest of us benefit immediately.
Still, I’d be lying if I said teachers weren’t the most cold-blooded, undiscerning bunch of vultures I have ever met.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that, if I cleaned out my refrigerator tonight and took to school that moldy pile of who-knows-what that’s been festering in back for the past three months, I could get rid of it within 20 minutes--regardless of if it’s become low-grade penicillin. How? Simply by plopping on a “Free” sticky note and running. Believe me when I say that the teachers’ lounge is a dark, dark place, despite all the lights.
Take today, for instance. A perfect chocolate cake greeted us as we filed into the lounge with our lunch bags. Every one of us noticed that cake just sitting there, unattached and irresistible. So how low are our standards? How desperate are we, simply because something is available? Well, this thing could have been made of sawdust and vomit, but because it had a thin layer of chocolate on it, to us, it was Eve in the garden, that siren calling us to our rocky deaths. And we? We were helpless under its powers, eventually convincing ourselves that this treat was brought here for US. To eat. Right now. With our hands, if necessary.
I am not proud of this seamy side of the otherwise noble tradition of teaching, even if I am first in line to practice it. I still cringe when I recall a long-ago journalism conference in which one of my colleagues belittled a kid who’d snuck into the advisers’ lounge and stolen a donut. “Those are for US, you idiot! PUT THAT BACK NOW!”
Teachers, who would rather poke their eyes with a sharpened #2 pencil than attend another meeting, will joyfully jump through your hoops if you just throw them a dried up Lorna Doone or two before knocking off another agenda items. As a profession, we are the ultimate cheap dates, all dolled up in our practical, khaki capris and cardigan sweaters. Deep down, we know this about ourselves, and yet, we still can’t resist. In this one area, we are anything but discerning. But a contented bunch, nonetheless.
Some teachers are pretty decent cooks. These are the ones I hope show up on the first Friday of each month, when the East High staff has a potluck lunch. Whatever they bring on these Fridays,—from Julie’s crack bars to Andrea’s cheesecakes, Laurie’s salsas to Chica’s strawberry cake—their offerings automatically up the “Cheetos” ante tenfold, and the rest of us benefit immediately.
Still, I’d be lying if I said teachers weren’t the most cold-blooded, undiscerning bunch of vultures I have ever met.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that, if I cleaned out my refrigerator tonight and took to school that moldy pile of who-knows-what that’s been festering in back for the past three months, I could get rid of it within 20 minutes--regardless of if it’s become low-grade penicillin. How? Simply by plopping on a “Free” sticky note and running. Believe me when I say that the teachers’ lounge is a dark, dark place, despite all the lights.
Take today, for instance. A perfect chocolate cake greeted us as we filed into the lounge with our lunch bags. Every one of us noticed that cake just sitting there, unattached and irresistible. So how low are our standards? How desperate are we, simply because something is available? Well, this thing could have been made of sawdust and vomit, but because it had a thin layer of chocolate on it, to us, it was Eve in the garden, that siren calling us to our rocky deaths. And we? We were helpless under its powers, eventually convincing ourselves that this treat was brought here for US. To eat. Right now. With our hands, if necessary.
I am not proud of this seamy side of the otherwise noble tradition of teaching, even if I am first in line to practice it. I still cringe when I recall a long-ago journalism conference in which one of my colleagues belittled a kid who’d snuck into the advisers’ lounge and stolen a donut. “Those are for US, you idiot! PUT THAT BACK NOW!”
Teachers, who would rather poke their eyes with a sharpened #2 pencil than attend another meeting, will joyfully jump through your hoops if you just throw them a dried up Lorna Doone or two before knocking off another agenda items. As a profession, we are the ultimate cheap dates, all dolled up in our practical, khaki capris and cardigan sweaters. Deep down, we know this about ourselves, and yet, we still can’t resist. In this one area, we are anything but discerning. But a contented bunch, nonetheless.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Joy of Lexiles--Why I Love the Sunday Paper
August 22, 2010
I found myself on page E3 of the Sunday Journal-Star this morning. It’s not often I find myself in that section. After all, Prairie Lane, while homey and craftsy, is, well, homey and craftsy—two things I clearly am not. Yet, there I was, nodding happily as I read Lorene Bartos’ “Housewise” column, finally realizing why my drinking glasses just weren’t coming out clean these days!
Because of a new dishwasher-detergent industry regulation, since July 1, phosphates are out. That means my glasses are coming out of the dishwasher looking like they just came down with a case of cataracts. But so are everyone else’s. Which really is the point, when you think about it. I mean, if it’d only been my glasses that were growing milky, then this would be personal.
I think it was the first time I’d really found myself on E3, a page I usually skip over entirely. One reason I skip it is because of those before/after photos of revamped rooms. More often than not, I find myself preferring the “before” over the “after,” and, frankly, it just got a bit embarrassing to realize the extent of my interior-design ignorance. So I just quit looking.
The sections of a Sunday newspaper can offer great insights into where we are in our lives. The order in which we read those sections often reflects the priorities and preferences of our days. If I handed a paper to each of my journalism students on the first day of school and gave them the instruction of spending the next 30 minutes reading that paper, I’d learn a great deal about them. By the end of those 30 minutes, I’d know whom my Sports editor and Opinions editor would be. I’d have a good idea who would make a good artist, a good photographer. I might even know who’s got a sick family member or who is in need of some extra cash, given how they navigate their paper.
I can’t go out into the world before reading my newspaper each morning. That must be why I keep getting up earlier and earlier. Fortunately, I’ve got the world’s greatest newspaper carrier, which means that, even at 4:30, I can open my front door and find that delectable collection of tales and sales tucked neatly into its plastic sheath, sometimes still warm from the presses, like fresh-baked cookies. I pull it out gently, toss aside the plastic for a future dog walk, and move into the library, where I turn on the lamp, open the back door a crack to let in a little fresh air, and settle in with my paper. Before reading it, though, I quickly move Section B (the Local) to the bottom of the pile, so that I may end with my favorite stuff. It’s one of the few times in my life when I actually practice a little delayed gratification.
That order may change a bit, though, now that volleyball season has begun. There will be days when I slowly build up to that section, anticipating and savoring each bump, set and spike that awaits me. Each summer, when Mark and I get to spend some days together, it is the want-ad section that dangles itself in front of our eyes, the crossword and cryptoquote that sing their siren songs to us. Come winter, when the call of a good blanket and fire takes center stage, I’ll anticipate the Wednesday paper, when recipes hold promise of warming up my insides.
Ah, but I wander. Mostly, I’m in denial this morning, because I’m a bit stumped by the NYT crossword. Having made my first run through, I see far more blank space than blue ink. Time to revisit those devilish clues, my mind once again fresh and open to possibilities.
I found myself on page E3 of the Sunday Journal-Star this morning. It’s not often I find myself in that section. After all, Prairie Lane, while homey and craftsy, is, well, homey and craftsy—two things I clearly am not. Yet, there I was, nodding happily as I read Lorene Bartos’ “Housewise” column, finally realizing why my drinking glasses just weren’t coming out clean these days!
Because of a new dishwasher-detergent industry regulation, since July 1, phosphates are out. That means my glasses are coming out of the dishwasher looking like they just came down with a case of cataracts. But so are everyone else’s. Which really is the point, when you think about it. I mean, if it’d only been my glasses that were growing milky, then this would be personal.
I think it was the first time I’d really found myself on E3, a page I usually skip over entirely. One reason I skip it is because of those before/after photos of revamped rooms. More often than not, I find myself preferring the “before” over the “after,” and, frankly, it just got a bit embarrassing to realize the extent of my interior-design ignorance. So I just quit looking.
The sections of a Sunday newspaper can offer great insights into where we are in our lives. The order in which we read those sections often reflects the priorities and preferences of our days. If I handed a paper to each of my journalism students on the first day of school and gave them the instruction of spending the next 30 minutes reading that paper, I’d learn a great deal about them. By the end of those 30 minutes, I’d know whom my Sports editor and Opinions editor would be. I’d have a good idea who would make a good artist, a good photographer. I might even know who’s got a sick family member or who is in need of some extra cash, given how they navigate their paper.
I can’t go out into the world before reading my newspaper each morning. That must be why I keep getting up earlier and earlier. Fortunately, I’ve got the world’s greatest newspaper carrier, which means that, even at 4:30, I can open my front door and find that delectable collection of tales and sales tucked neatly into its plastic sheath, sometimes still warm from the presses, like fresh-baked cookies. I pull it out gently, toss aside the plastic for a future dog walk, and move into the library, where I turn on the lamp, open the back door a crack to let in a little fresh air, and settle in with my paper. Before reading it, though, I quickly move Section B (the Local) to the bottom of the pile, so that I may end with my favorite stuff. It’s one of the few times in my life when I actually practice a little delayed gratification.
That order may change a bit, though, now that volleyball season has begun. There will be days when I slowly build up to that section, anticipating and savoring each bump, set and spike that awaits me. Each summer, when Mark and I get to spend some days together, it is the want-ad section that dangles itself in front of our eyes, the crossword and cryptoquote that sing their siren songs to us. Come winter, when the call of a good blanket and fire takes center stage, I’ll anticipate the Wednesday paper, when recipes hold promise of warming up my insides.
Ah, but I wander. Mostly, I’m in denial this morning, because I’m a bit stumped by the NYT crossword. Having made my first run through, I see far more blank space than blue ink. Time to revisit those devilish clues, my mind once again fresh and open to possibilities.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
All Creatures Great and Small
August 21, 2010
The hummingbirds are back in town, using up the last of their vacation days before losing them to a new fiscal year. Why they choose to spend those precious days in Lincoln is a puzzle to me, although I’m grateful for the company. Just the other evening, a ruby-throated passerby stopped in our backyard just long enough to pummel the Canna lily that abuts our patio furniture. I was mighty grateful to have my butt in that furniture during its brief visit.
This is the time of year that I am reminded of old words, like “bounty” and “harvest.” Words that once conjured up kindergarten images of a two-dimensional horn-o-plenty stuffed full of gourds and apples now fill my head with live things--buzzing cicadas, put-up-your-dukes praying mantises and lightning-fast hummingbirds, things whose fleeting decadence both delights and exhausts me.
This overstimulated environment is no place in which to read today’s headlines. How, pray tell, am I supposed to find the room to take in the news about Russia’s endangered seed bank, home to 1,000 kinds of strawberries, for St. Petersburg’s sake? It simply stymies the mind to try to ponder how each of these berries stands apart from its cousins. Those who tend these fields say that 90 percent of the plants there can be found nowhere else in the world. And to learn that the thing that is threatening this natural savings-and-loan is a real-estate venture. . . frankly, such news does not shine a warm light on our kind.
I felt like a manic-depressive Paul Harvey this morning, licking my index finger in a desperate search for something more hopeful on page two or page three or perhaps on page four. Alas, that proved fruitless, ironically, as I read that there is now evidence the moon is shrinking.
Tossing aside the morning news, I replaced it with something glossier and more upbeat—the latest issue of my newly-crowned favorite, “The Smithsonian” magazine—where I still found no solace. Instead, I was haunted by the flat, black-and-white images of a foundling ivory-billed woodpecker sitting atop a man’s hat. The photos were from 1937, the last time anyone had irrefutable proof that these magnificent birds were still around. Proof, in this case, came in the form of a nestling whose clumsy, spectacular frame graced this man’s upper torso for five or ten miraculous minutes, deep in a no-longer-there Tennessee virgin forest.
I cannot imagine such grace.
And yet, maybe I can. Maybe I need to do nothing more than wander the meandering garden in my own backyard, where goldfinches now alight on pooped-out purple coneflowers, prying loose their mid-morning snacks. Maybe I just need to run my hands across the four kinds of tomatoes now growing in our garden, each with a different, pulpy fingerprint, one more tart than the others. Maybe I just need to give myself over to the decadence and overgrowth of my own small world, and let myself be amazed by it all, ignoring the siren songs of the newsprint that is trapped inside my house.
The hummingbirds are back in town, using up the last of their vacation days before losing them to a new fiscal year. Why they choose to spend those precious days in Lincoln is a puzzle to me, although I’m grateful for the company. Just the other evening, a ruby-throated passerby stopped in our backyard just long enough to pummel the Canna lily that abuts our patio furniture. I was mighty grateful to have my butt in that furniture during its brief visit.
This is the time of year that I am reminded of old words, like “bounty” and “harvest.” Words that once conjured up kindergarten images of a two-dimensional horn-o-plenty stuffed full of gourds and apples now fill my head with live things--buzzing cicadas, put-up-your-dukes praying mantises and lightning-fast hummingbirds, things whose fleeting decadence both delights and exhausts me.
This overstimulated environment is no place in which to read today’s headlines. How, pray tell, am I supposed to find the room to take in the news about Russia’s endangered seed bank, home to 1,000 kinds of strawberries, for St. Petersburg’s sake? It simply stymies the mind to try to ponder how each of these berries stands apart from its cousins. Those who tend these fields say that 90 percent of the plants there can be found nowhere else in the world. And to learn that the thing that is threatening this natural savings-and-loan is a real-estate venture. . . frankly, such news does not shine a warm light on our kind.
I felt like a manic-depressive Paul Harvey this morning, licking my index finger in a desperate search for something more hopeful on page two or page three or perhaps on page four. Alas, that proved fruitless, ironically, as I read that there is now evidence the moon is shrinking.
Tossing aside the morning news, I replaced it with something glossier and more upbeat—the latest issue of my newly-crowned favorite, “The Smithsonian” magazine—where I still found no solace. Instead, I was haunted by the flat, black-and-white images of a foundling ivory-billed woodpecker sitting atop a man’s hat. The photos were from 1937, the last time anyone had irrefutable proof that these magnificent birds were still around. Proof, in this case, came in the form of a nestling whose clumsy, spectacular frame graced this man’s upper torso for five or ten miraculous minutes, deep in a no-longer-there Tennessee virgin forest.
I cannot imagine such grace.
And yet, maybe I can. Maybe I need to do nothing more than wander the meandering garden in my own backyard, where goldfinches now alight on pooped-out purple coneflowers, prying loose their mid-morning snacks. Maybe I just need to run my hands across the four kinds of tomatoes now growing in our garden, each with a different, pulpy fingerprint, one more tart than the others. Maybe I just need to give myself over to the decadence and overgrowth of my own small world, and let myself be amazed by it all, ignoring the siren songs of the newsprint that is trapped inside my house.
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