Farewells

Maybe science teachers don't get this...maybe some of my students won't even believe this (though they don't read this blog, anyway), those at least who see me as an evil uber grader...EVERY semester, my wife has to deal with it, so i thought I would just document it here.

I go through a phase of something-like-sadness every semester after grades are turned in. On the one hand, I have my standard out-of-the-box regret and worry that I coulda/shoulda done more to equip my students. On the other, I have this more emotional, probably inappropriate, sadness. I'll likely never see these folks again, for the most part. We've endured so much together in just 15 weeks. I've gotten in their heads through their journals. I've wrestled rhetoric with them. I've watched them grow. It's something akin, in ways, to the empty nest syndrome parents feel when their kids go on. Maybe it's a bit like sending someone off to the battle front.

I get a twinge of it again, at commencement sometimes, but it's just not the same.

I like this time of year, for now that all the grades are in, students can drop the Eddie Haskell and just be honest and true. That's when a teacher learns the most, so far as impact, etc. Instructor evaluations are enlightening. Candid journal assessments are, too. I think the biggest endorsement that I must be doing something right is when students refer their family members (husbands, children, etc) to take my courses, or when a student actually takes another course with me in the future. Either they are masochists, or they feel they are getting something from the exposure.

Meanwhile, I'll work through it, like I always do. I busy myself with things-to-do over breaks, and I try to put it all out of my mind. The great (?) thing about this job is that I get a whole new crop of folk next semester to invest in, again.

Tom Robbins Time

I'm within sight of winter break. Weeks of time! Free time! Not everyone has this luxury, this priceless holiday bonus. Some people work outside of academia, I'm reminded, and only have a few days either side of a recognized holiday.

This holiday is especially exciting. It's our first in our new house. It's the last before Jarvis 3.0 is hatched (due out January 9th, I'm reminded). Last year at this time, I composed a list of to-do's, especially to avoid the emotional cesspool of regret I usually feel after a lengthy vacation: "I could have done more..." "Why didn't I just..." That list served me well, and I'm going to kick another one out this week. Last year's list was mundane, looking back. I'm going to powerpack this one!

Tom Robbins, whom I have often referred as my favorite author, has yet to make an appearance here at Musement Park, and it's time. If you've not read his work, put it on your list for the break (assuming you have a break...and if you don't, read him instead of sleeping). I would be challenged to accurately characterize or summarize his work, but I can explain what I like about it. He is not presumptuous. He is one who can turn a phrase or milk a metaphor for all it is worth. He's funny, often naughty, and always mentally stimulating.


To give you a taste, I'm sharing here a passage from his book, Skinny Legs and All on this very subject of time (even a cursory review of this blog will prove time to be an obsession of mine):

Information about time cannot be imparted in a straightforward way. Like furniture, it has to be tipped and tilted to get it through the door. If the past is a solid oak buffet whose legs must be unscrewed and whose drawers must be removed before, in an altered state, it can be upended into the entryway of our minds, then the future is a king-sized waterbed that hardly stands a chance, especially if it needs to be brought up in an elevator. Those billions who persist in perceiving time as the pursuit of the future are continually buying waterbeds that will never make it beyond the front porch or the lobby. And if man's mission is to reside in the fullness of the present, then he's got no space for the waterbed, anyhow, not even if he could lower it through a skylight.

See what I mean? Swell, huh?

Workin' in a coal mine/Goin' down down down/Workin' in a coal mine/Whop! about to slip down...

Yes, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. 'Tis the season all of us on this side of the desk bemoan our lousy jobs. I'm grading my (literal) foot-high stacks of essays, gnashing my teeth, gnawing my pencil, 'gnowing' all the while how futile some of it may be.


Yet I persist.

It's not really the toughest job I've ever held.

In fact, it would be fun if you all chimed in on this: What was your toughest job?

Here's a few to get you started...
Once, I worked overnight as a custodian at a childcare center on campus. It was generally pud, for I had all night to do 4 hours of work, and I had free reign of the facility...however, cleaning the kiddie urinals daily was unpleasant, and when they played in the sand, it was impossible to vacuum.

I can beat that, myself. I once (for a single day) worked at a feedlot (look it up, ye who know naught of them). I painted corral fencing, waded up to my knees in mud-n-manure. It was June, very hot, very humid, very...fragrant. The paint was oil-based. We were using wash mitts to apply it. The paint dried on my arms and 'had' to be removed with wire brush and gasoline (not too smart, to say the least).

Then there was the day I did preg-checks for an entire day, reaching the length of my arm into the privates of bovines...

Then, a couple of times, I've had to castrate cattle. The man I worked for let his little bullies get far too large (two years old, some of them) and thus, cutting horns and testicles was a gruesome, painful, nightmare for everyone involved.

Oh, almost forgot the manual labor experience that sent me packing to higher education: I was laying out a year before committing to college. I was undecided. Working in a glass shop, I found my motivation one spring day when several 4x8 sheets of plate glass smacked me like a bug when they were blown free of the delivery truck. Though not badly injured, (after all, I was 18 and invincible) I was suddenly aware that standing by a glass truck on a smoke break had nearly proven fatal.

I have been exposed to truly terrible work environments. I've watched the poor, hapless drones behind the fast food counter and within the kitchen. I've heard some horror stories from highway workers. I watched Clerks...

...and, in April of 2000, I had the chance to walk 3 miles in the boots of true coal miners in Mexico. We descended deep into a mine, so deep and oppressive it gave me the heebie jeebies just to be there. It was dark, humid, dusty in places...sometimes outright hot, as if we were drilling to the center of the earth. I expected a spurt of magma at any minute. When we came out later, I was so coated in black coal dust it took (truly!) days and days to get it all out of my pores. Now THAT was a nasty job, coal mining.

every orifice
wolf whistles and caterwauls
an incendiary song

getting thicker now
antifreeze in my marrow
blood salt sludge-melt

quartz keeps time but not mine
fields vast spanse stretch out cold
sore stiff rattletrap

More on Food

I just heard a radio broadcast on food waste...This takes you to the transcript of an interview of the same ilk. "Tim Jones is an anthropologist from the University of Arizona and he was on The Science Show two years ago, having found that households alone, in America alone, throw away $48.3 billion worth of food each year."

Gadzooks! Pass the potatoes.

Food...for thought.

As most read this, they are recovering from Thanksgiving feeding frenzies. Some I know had three or four Thanksgiving dinners to devour. We waddle away from these more stuffed than the turkeys we consumed. It is the season in which the guilty pleasure of gorging is soon chased with the guilt-laden advertising of dieting programs, nationwide.

What better time to share some thoughts on food!

Recently, I served up a bowl of dry dog food for my beagle, Roger. Then, I turned my attention to my kids, and poured them some cereal. As everyone was munching away, I thought that every meal should be so simple. Pour it in a bowl and eat it, same thing, every meal, just like Roger.

It also reminded me of a time, as an evil big brother, that I served my little brother a bowl of chocolate puffs cereal. I was tired of serving him breakfast, and I had a bit of a mean streak, too. I waited until he had consumed a few spoonfuls before I told him it was rabbit droppings I’d picked up around the farm before he woke up. (I can only hope my boys won’t be so mean-spirited!) I don’t know the nutritional value of rabbit droppings. I don’t even know if one could put enough sugar on them to make them tasty. I suppose the practice might be environmentally sound, but I don’t suggest it.

What I might suggest, however, is simplifying our diet. This is totally contrary to my wife’s way of thinking. She feels guilty cooking a roast, for it’s too easy. She’s a great cook, inspired by dozens of cookbooks and hours of the food channel. Maybe her way of thinking, that it has to be unique or complicated, is the status quo these days. I know she’s trying to do her best by us, serving sautéed olive skins over braised lamb’s breath sprinkled with shavings of mango or whatever…but truly, it doesn’t have to be a production to be nutritious.

Reminder: I was a bachelor for the better part of twenty years. For me, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were complicated. I often ate cereal for meals, right out of the box. A sack of potatoes offered me a week of meals. I was not one to shun prepared foods, either. I ate my weight in fast food weekly. I did not recognize food if it did not have to first be unwrapped and micro-waved. One of my greatest garage sale finds of all time was a case of military-issue Meals Ready to Eat (MRE’s). To my way of thinking, to this day, SPAM is the ultimate food product. (It is fun to carve into exotic shapes, too.)

Now, I grew up on a dirt farm, and we produced a great deal of grain. Back then, I thought it was only for livestock. I came to marvel at the annual Home Products Dinner held in my hometown, for they had baked bread from the grain of our ground. They had even made donuts out of sorghum. I learned all manner of corn and grain could be popped. When attending Kansas State University, I toured a facility that turned grain into cheese puffs. Finally, I truly understood: grain really was food!
Interestingly enough, I have since learned that most people on the planet live on a diet of grain products. It’s not just for livestock or cheese puffs. Even a review of the food pyramid suggests a healthy portion of breads, cereals, etc. While a diet exclusively grain-based may not be entirely healthy, it is at least more simple.

Of all the cookbooks in our kitchen, I most admire a couple published by the Mennonites, the “More with Less” series. Sensitive to global inequities in food availability and distribution, aware of the massive environmental footprint left by the diet of the northern hemisphere, rooted in the agrarian tradition of their faith, these ladies put together one heck of a cookbook. It features traditional meals, like those we just enjoyed, but it puts a focus on grain-heavy diets.

My wife and I go round-and-round about this. I say, let’s eat cracked wheat. She says, what about the children? I know it’s never going to go my way, that even if we did have cracked wheat, it would be sprinkled over something exotic. I wouldn’t even suggest a grain-heavy diet to anyone, let alone a vegetarian course. (Area ranchers would shoot me on sight.)

I would say, however, that after our annual pig out, maybe it would be okay to take it easy, to eat more simply. There are actually “movements” afoot to encourage us to slow down and eat whole meals at the kitchen table. One such activist group is Slow Food, USA. They argue that “industrialization of food was standardizing taste and leading to the annihilation of thousands of food varieties and flavors.” Who could argue with preserving food and flavor! They advocate gardening, farmer’s markets, less processed and more simple meals.

That all still seems like a lot of work, but I like the idea of slow food. If I were still a bachelor, I’d support the cause. I’d slowly masticate nothing but potatoes from New Year’s to Thanksgiving, then get my fill of all the good stuff.

Mortality Morality

On this day, almost to the hour, three years ago...I had my last conversation with my dad. It wasn't an especially good conversation, for I was gruff. My parents had skipped my son's first birthday party the week previous, and I was in no mood to hear about western kansas, Agrigas meter service, snow over the door handles on the pickups, etc...I was in no mood to negotiate visiting over Thanksgiving at some hotel buffet again, either. I was cloudy, thinking how unlike the Cleavers we were, and how very much I wanted a Rockwellian holiday, just once.

Then, Wednesday morning at the same phone, a call came in. I was the only one on campus, it was a fluke that the phone would even ring on the holiday break. Out of curiosity, I picked up, only to talk to someone from the Ulysses PD, who shared the bad news: my dad had died in his sleep.

I think that was the moment, more than any before/since, that I wished I could control time, that I could TIVO back just two days and have that conversation all over again. Sure, we said the perfunctory "Love 'ya" as always. Sure, he didn't likely even know I was unhappy with him...but if I could re-do that conversation, it would be so very different.

Of course, that is just a fantasy. The reality is that in life there are no do-overs. That one change, my dad's passing, has likely affected me more than any other single event in my timeline. More than getting married. More than having kids. More than flunking out of college. More than asking my best friend to shoot me with a .30 caliber rifle when wearing a kevlar vest....Since that one event, my career changed twice, my residence changed three times, and my outlook has never quite quit revolving around the presence of the present. (For that matter, the present [gift] of the present.)

Sometimes I forget, like everyone else, and just take time and life for granted. There are moments which pass that I still reflect on with regret. For the most part, however, I try to now live as if this moment, these people, this presence, may never recur. Days like this, milestones like headstones, remind me.

I'll never quite know if my dad saw it coming. He was in good health, had quit smoking and he was exercising daily. He'd had a full physical just a month before, and he'd passed with flying colors. Somehow, however, tracking back through his notes, journals, files, etc...I think he was privvy to the reaper's knock. He had become somewhat obsessed with the idea of not only capturing family geneology, but also family history, particularly stories. He had commissioned my wife and I to gather up all the Jarvis family anecdotes by video and audio, and to then link them to 'fruits' hanging from the family tree. Sadly, that idea has not gone past his dream of it...but it suggests that he, at least, understood mortality and wanted to preserve a little something.

I tried following in his footsteps. I even moved back to Western Kansas and took over his estate, his business, and the care of his wife, dogs, property, bills, etc. I was so resolute in that effort that I bought a house there before I even had quit my job back at Cowley.

I learned that wasn't really healthy for me. I'm not him. I don't like it out there, and I didn't like his business. I wanted to preserve the farmstead that had been my father's and his father's before him...but it's just not the same, anyway.

Now, I have a good life, and I'm a much different person than I was 3 years ago. I'd like to show him around the farm I own, set a grandkid on his knee, swap stories, tell lies...and in my head and heart, I suppose I do.

Personal Responsibility

"Personal responsibility" seems a rare breed, an endangered species. The phrase is composed of two words I used to put in contrast: "personal" for me, was my business; "responsibility" was just an obscenity, so far as I was concerned, for it implied some degree of potential blame...and maturity, ownership, and accountability to Others. Until recently, I would flee from responsibility if ever I could, only accepting it to whatever degree I absolutely had to in order to function in civilization.

That was my take on it. Then I became a parent, and apparently, that changed everything. Now I own-up to being responsible. I know my kids will succeed to the degree I equip them. I know I must earn a living and be accountable (you know, keep office hours, pay taxes, eat regularly, etc) when before I fashioned myself as something of an outlaw misfit doing my own thing. From what I've been observing of others since my change in character and perspective, I'm not so convinced that even parenthood endues everyone with personal responsibility.

I've written before about frivolous lawsuits and the litigious nature of our culture. I've come to agree with conservatives like Glenn Beck on at least this one issue: people don't take responsibility for anything. Does there need to be a warning label on a bag of marshmallows that tells us not to eat the whole bag? Does a bar tender bear the burden of responsibility for someone drinking him- or herself silly? Should McDonald's be held liable for some dunce spilling hot coffee on herself?

I am on this topic at this time in the term for I know what is about to happen: whining. Students who have not, say, bothered to come to class regularly are all-the-sudden conscientious, studious, respectful (Eddie Haskells) and pleading for some extra credit, some reconsideration, some break. Later, a few who are issued a grade they don't particularly like will contest it through official channels, insisting it was not what they earned. (This seldom happens in my classes, but it isn't uncommon on a campus.) All too often, I have yielded, negotiated, and in many ways compromised. Not that I've compromised with the student, but I've compromised my standards.

Of this, I say, no more. (There, it's documented here for me to reflect over later.) Just when did school come to be the place to teach wiley negotiation, anyway? For that matter, is it even our responsibility to teach responsibility? Shouldn't it simply be expected, like it should be in the workforce? I have a feeling that low expectations, all-around, have created this lack of responsibility.

When I was in college, if I did not show up, I knew I was a *uck up, and I took what came my way. Sure, that caused something of a checkered transcript, and I did retake about $6,000 worth of courses, but that was my fault. I was the one who decided to skip, not do homework, refuse to dissect something, sleep in, go to the lake...drop out. I had a choice, I was paying the bills, and I bore the brunt of what I had decided to do.

When I taught technical writing, I had absolutely no mercy. I was supposedly training would-be engineers on workplace expectations. I led the class like an employer. Expectations were high, and achievement was equally high. (Of course, they were on their last semester of a Bachelor's degree and already contracting for jobs that paid several times what I earned, so they had extrinsic motivation!)

That may not work for me here at the community college (note, I did not say Juco!) Instead, I have a new plan to implement: zero tolerance for absences, absolutely no late work, and absolutely no extra credit. I'll keep the policy that work can be submitted in advance of known absences and that anticipated absences (or absences excused by the institution) can be dealt with in advance. I'll have some kind of 'personal hardship' clause, to compensate for sudden deaths among family, etc. Otherwise, I'll front everyone a set amount of points (resembling sick leave). If they expend those points on material not submitted, etc. then it's gone. If, come the end of the term, enough of those points remain in their 'account' then they do not have to take my final exam. (Truth is, that's still extra credit, underneath it all, but it's going to save me an enormous amount of bookwork.)

Maybe that will thwart the whiners next semester.

Back to reality, outside the ivy walls of academia...personal responsibility is a bitter pill, a big burden. No wonder so very many people are repelled by it. By contrast, it seems so much easier to blame others, to litigate against others, to milk some corporate cash cow. The effects of this are far reaching, and all too often, these effects are reaching into my pocket (and no, it doesn't tickle). Medical and insurance rates are high, taxes go higher, and sometimes simple fear is stratospheric. For example, some schools no longer go on field trips. Some churches no longer do 'high risk' fundraisers like car washes. Even teachers must fear the litigious reaper--'heard of "academic negligence" or "educational malpractice" yet? If not, you will!

Just today, an employee of a major toy company told us of a situation I found incredulous. She works a customer complaint line. Someone called her, raised hell with her, for the caller had cut himself when attempting to open her company's toy. (To this point, I could sympathize with the caller, for I spent last weekend struggling with wires and tabs and bangles and what's-it's, just to remove my son's toys from their cartons.) He threatened, then, to sue her company. Result? the policy is that her company is to make every conciliatory effort to appease the customer. Her company paid damages, his medical bills, and something of an out-of-court settlement for the grievous affect the whole affair plagued him with.

Here's the kicker: that man had been opening said toy boxes with a steak knife. There was not warning on the box, he had said, that suggested he might use, say, a nail file or pen knife. Nothing warning him that steak knives, meat cleavers, chain saws or blow torches might endanger him, should he consider using them to open said box.

(Apologies to Genesis): This is the world we live in. This is the hand we're given (unless say, we cut it off with a wild steak knife). I say it's high time we start trying to make it a world worth living in. Maybe the first step is to own up to our own screw ups.

It's a personal goal. It's an instructional goal to impart on my students. It's a goal I have in parenting, too. Already, I tell my kid, "Hey, you have the choice here, pal. You can poop your pants and clean it up, or you can be a big boy and use the stool." If he's figuring it out, maybe everyone else can, too. (?)

Let the Devil in the Door

Another parenting threshold stumbled over--this time: video games. Yes, my 4 year old was given a video game for his birthday last weekend. No hard feelings, cousins who gifted him with this, but you must know (should you ever read this blog) that I am mortified.


Will this some day be my child's fate?
I know not all gamers are geeks (or worse). I know that many have avid gaming interests and are still interactive, socially conscious human beings. I also know, however, too much about the industry, the dark side, the evil-doers!

Even at the most fundamental, gaming can rob a family of togetherness, and I treasure that very highly. So, we had our first 'family meeting' last night. I explained to mom and the 1 and 4 yr olds that I had, admittedly, lost the battle on the abuse of television in my household. I had, in addition, contributed to other infringements on our time together. However, I firmly asserted, with plugging in this video game, there would be some rules: 1)Never play alone 2)Never play more than 30 minutes a day. Well, we'll see how it goes. I just wanted to document here that I had made some effort to stop what I anticipate will be a tidal flow of media influence and infringement in our home. There, I tried.

Jane! Help, Jane!

Another guilt entry...maybe I need some kind of medication or something! Anyway, I just had a stimulating conversation with a student who's term project is on multi-lingual education. She shared results of studies that reinforce what we all know: kids learn very well when very young, then gradually have a harder time of it. Her project recommends teaching kids langages from birth. (A friend of mine taught her sons simple sign language, and they were communicating a year before they could articulate in words.)

Results of that study are compounded for me, right now, by a book I'm reading, Possessing Genius: The True Account of the Bizarre Odyssey of Einstein's Brain.

(It's a very fascinating account, btw, of not only the travels of his post-mortem brain, but also of the brain's development, etc...and I only paid a buck for it! Get yours at the Chisolm Trail bookstore, where all books are going for a buck as they are closing!!)

Back to guilt. I currently have two boys, ages 1 and (as of Friday) 4 years old. We do something of an above-average job of exposing them to good stuff, nurturing them, etc...however, we could do more. The window of opportunity for loading their potent little brains is already closing! Birth to 3 is the era of greatest development and learning for life. My oldest is already getting too old! It really gives me a sense of urgency.

So here I go: I think our world is topsy-turvy. I've finally developed priorities and principles, in my 40's, and this life does not reflect them. Okay, I suppose I value education, communication, critical thinking, an informed electorate, and thus, my job is not inconsistent with the above. However, none of that is a high priority.

At the top of my list, being a person of spirit, would be to have something of a spiritually driven life. Alas, it ain't there. Like eating right and getting enough sleep, somehow I must just figure the spirit can wait.

Next is my family, and sure, I get to spend more time with them than most folk I know; however, it's not enough and it's not high-octane. There should never even be a question of my love/loyalty, never a doubt, but when I'm not there, or when I hush someone so I can hear a news broadcast (or worse, a gag in a sitcom or some cruicial 'fact' in a crime drama)...when I act like that, where's my priority then? eh?

Somewhere high on my priority list is the well-being of my boys, and I do so very little to make'em smart.

Our culture does not prioritize these things. I've figured out why: you can't make money from it. Also, you can't manipulate people who live by principle, so 'best to keep them running. Ralph Ellison (just to get all literary for a second), in "The Invisible Man" as I recall, had an administrator passing word to a subsequent administrator regarding the main character. The note said (quoting, not to step on anyone's sensitivities here): "Keep that Nigger boy running." This is exactly what we are all doing to this day. We are so busily running on the treadmill or hamster wheel, we do not take time to live right, think right, be right. (This is to say nothing of 'righteous' btw, just plain right.)

I used to think, when I took the time, that this was some sinister, corporate plot. I'm not so inclined to believe it is, anymore. Like water, I think we all have a tendency to take the path of least resistance. We go with the flow. Sure, consumerism in America would suffer if we slowed down, but I really don't know that there is any (published or otherwise) plan/agenda to keep us fleet-of-feet.

Like George Jetson, sometimes I find myself screaming, "Jane! Help! Jane, get me off of this thing!"

Stop the bus, I want to get off.

If our culture really lived by values, 'family values' if you must, then wouldn't we, say, work like dogs for 20 years before having kids, saving all our money, then just clock out for 20 years, to be there for them as they grew? If not 20 years, some variation on the theme? In some parts of Europe, both parents get leave of up to three years when a child is born. Why not here? (Why didn't I plan for that? Because until I had kids, I didn't get it and I was selfish.)

I am not a single parent in school working two jobs. Nonetheless, like them, I feel my lifestyle is robbing me of my life, of being there and doing the best by my kids. I love my job, but I so wish I could do it from home, or somehow find a way to minimize my time away from the fam. This is all a cultural creation; one could clearly track its origins to the industrial revolution. Knowing that (and more) does not make the situation any more palatable. Not at all.

I'm going to cook something up on this. I'm going to beat the system. I just hope I can get it figured out before my boys have their own children!

A Peek at Peak Oil

Adjust your sphincter for this one!
Here I've been forewarning of the problems of prosperity, of profiteering, of media manipulation...and all along, it would seem, I've been fearful of trivial pursuits, rather than a bigger issue: peak oil.

I suggest you google or Utube the topic. Don't take my word for it.

Sources have long predicted that our oil supply is in peril. I can actually remember this from back in the 1970's. What I did not recall was a particularly chilling date range for the decline of our reserves. Some are now predicting it will dry up w/n the next 40 years. Now, maybe I didn't care back in the 70's (for a variety of reasons, not limited to youthful indestructability), but I care now. Though I may not be alive in 40 years, I bet my boys will be.

The sad thing, to me, is that this issue seems much like global warming, politics in general, etc...how is an individual to address it? I can no sooner stop global warming by recycling than I can make the political system honest with my vote tomorrow. I'd guess I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed by the doom/gloom and the microscopic difference I might make.

Lately, however, I've been talking w/my wife about living by principles. If a person were to truly do that (an aware, enlightened person), then it wouldn't matter if that individual's impact would really affect the big picture. It would matter solely to him/her. That noted, perhaps I need to begin living by principle (see Prosperity entry) and not by denial.

There are respectable movements afoot, including relocalizing, which I find admirable if not a little hard to practice. I've spoken with like-minded friends for twenty years about some kind of alternative community. Last year I was on a kick of Tiny Houses, and I still am entertaining that (even as we are trying to build on to our current home to better accommodate 3 kids and a scrapbooking hobby). All of this seems better than simply wringing one's hands.

...and that's just the beginning. I know full-well that smoking is killing me, yet I do it, even aware that it supports a giant, heartless corporate empire all-the-while. I also eat fast food and prepared food packed with nastiness. Even when I eat well, I eat like an American, packing it in and moving to the living room television altar all-too-soon. I should, instead, be living the SlowFood lifestyle, and I know it!

AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
It all goes back to me being rather too black/white, an absolutist. It drives family and friends crazy. I am seeking informed advice on how to cope with reality from you, gentle reader. What is one to DO in light of all the doom and gloom? How is one to sleep at night, feeling as if one's principles are intact? I seem never to be able to simply settle on 'good enough,' and that leaves me (when I allow myself to slow down and entertain ideas) very disappointed in myself. How can I feel I lead a good model for my kids, after all?

Your thoughts are coveted.

Umph...missed that holiday.

Halloween has been a favorite holiday of mine since I was a young'un. This year, however, I was out sick. Didn't get to dress up. Didn't get to attend a single haunt. Didn't pass out candy. Didn't get to trick/treat w/my kids. *Sigh*

Like most celebrations, events, etc. in our culture, Halloween has become big business. I'm not going to cite facts here, but trust me, it's worth your investigation. I was part of the 'haunt industry' for a couple of years, 'was even swapping email and online chat jabber with some of the biggest names in the fright business. It is a fascinating field, and what's most fascinating about it to me now is that behind most large commercial haunted houses stands...not some geeky creep who wears face paint year'round...but a business man/woman. It takes a business minded individual to keep the turnstile turning, the cost-per-scare reasonable, and the promotional dollars balanced with the gallons of fake blood. (That, of course, would be a factor in why Toxic Terror, my haunted enterprise, is no-more. Actually, there's a lot to why Toxic Terror had a meltdown, not the least, the fact that I left for western kansas.) A haunt manager must also have a characteristic that makes them distinctly different from other entrepreneurs: sadism. At least some degree of a haunt manager's thinking must always be on how to freak out the customers in new and gruesome ways. (There again, I have a degree of wickedness, but I just don't think I ever had the constitution to creep people out as they would need.)

I digress. Actually, I don't know what I was writing about here, except a general lamentation that I missed Halloween.

Prosperity

A potpourri of points of interest have recently congealed for me, to wit:

Most news aficionados realize that October 17th, 7:46 a.m. EDT marked the birth of the 300 millionth US citizen. What few attend to, however, is that we are well past that mark, already. According to the US Census bureau, allowing for births, immigrants, and deaths, our population grows by one every eleven seconds. At the time of this writing, the population is already twenty-thousand people larger.

Approximately 30 million Americans have below basic literacy skills, claims the National Center for Family literacy. That’s ten percent of the population. Having been a literacy tutor, and through conducting Labauch Literacy trainings, I’ve come to realize how vital literacy skills can be. One out of ten people you rub elbows with may not be able to read their prescription dosages or a simple map.

This is especially astonishing when considering how very much media we encounter through our every waking moment. I have just completed a media literacy unit in my composition courses, citing facts such as, “Four hours of television programming contain around 100 advertisements.” In our country, we are constantly pushed information from every media, yet some people cannot even read it.

All the while, in some remote parts of our world 30 or more children must circulate and share a single textbook. Some philanthropic organizations are doing their dead-level best to recycle books that otherwise end up in our landfills. [Check out www.betterworldbooks.com for example.] In some places, paper is at a premium, but here, it is not respected.

This week, my students chose to read Ursula LeGuin’s dystopic parable, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” The piece poses a difficult question to the reader: what wrong would you allow/tolerate to sustain a utopia? In the piece, one child is abused, tormented, and kept in a cellar; in exchange, everyone in Omelas lives an idyllic life, even though they are aware of the atrocity. Though written in the early 1970’s, the social commentary is fitting even today. How can the most wealthy, formidable nation on earth still have illiterate, impoverished citizens? How can its 300 million people deny the needs of the rest of the planet?

I have had a brush with altruism, having led an extensive program for college volunteers. Through that endeavor, I was able to try on many volunteer hats myself, addressing issues of poor housing, poverty, literacy, etc. I was able to sleep at night, knowing I had a hand in fielding thousands of volunteers to address these issues and more. Still, I was realistic, and like Ayn Rand, posed the question to myself and my students: “Is altruism truly possible?” In doing good for someone, are we not always reaping reward ourselves?

Oskar Shindler, a Czech born businessman profiteered from the German war machine during the Second World War by exploiting cheap Jewish labor. Through his exposure to the plight of those he abused, he ended up penniless, having saved over 1000 Polish Jews from almost certain death during the holocaust. Near the end of 1993 film, Schindler’s List, his character had a moment of regret, for he felt he could have done more. In an exchange with Itzhak Stern:
Oskar Schindler: I didn't do enough!
Itzhak Stern: You did so much.
[Schindler looks at his car] Oskar Schindler: This car. Goeth would have bought this car. Why did I keep the car? Ten people right there. Ten people. Ten more people. [removing Nazi pin from lapel] This pin. Two people. This is gold. Two more people. He would have given me two for it, at least one. One more person. A person, Stern. For this. [sobbing] I could have gotten one more person... and I didn't! And I... I didn't!

The passage above haunts me. Like Schindler, I feel that I have not done enough. Being responsible starts with being aware. Being accountable follows responsibility. I am fully accountable for the plight of the world. I am totally immersed in the dilemma of the American conscience. Still, I do little about it. Like Schindler, I feel I could do more. I think we all could do more. Prosperity comes at a great price every individual must weigh for himself.

Nerd, Geek, Dork Test

As I am an advisor of an esteemed academic honorary, I thought the following was fitting:

Outcast Genius 78 % Nerd, 52% Geek, 52% Dork

For The Record: A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia. A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one. A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions. You scored better than half in all three, earning you the title of: Outcast Genius. Outcast geniuses usually are bright enough to understand what society wants of them, and they just don't care! They are highly intelligent and passionate about the things they know are *truly* important in the world. Typically, this does not include sports, cars or make-up, but it can on occassion (and if it does then they know more than all of their friends combined in that subject). Outcast geniuses can be very lonely, due to their being outcast from most normal groups and too smart for the room among many other types of dorks and geeks, but they can also be the types to eventually rule the world, ala Bill Gates, the prototypical Outcast Genius. Congratulations! America/Politics Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

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Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test

Big block of unverified (but interesting) "history"

I apologize for the formatting--I'm lazy. Someone forwarded this to me, and in my quest to learn history, (see last entry), I figured it was a good start. Be enlightened!

The next time you are washing your hands and complain because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the1500s: Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bathin May, and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they werestarting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the bodyodor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of thehouse had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sonsand men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all thebabies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it.Hence the saying, Don't throw the baby out with the Bath water.. Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so allthe cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip andfall off the roof. Hence the saying . It's raining cats and dogs. There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house.. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppingscould mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy bedscame into existence. The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, Dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors that wouldget slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) onfloor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway. Hence thesaying a thresh hold. (Getting quite an education, aren't you?) In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and addedthings to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat.They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to getcold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had foodin it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme, Peasporridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.. Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quitespecial. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off.It was a sign of wealth that a man could, bring home the bacon. Theywould cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around andchew the fat.. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acidcontent caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing leadpoisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous. Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottomof the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someonewalking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see ifthey would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake. England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would takethe bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift.) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell orwas considered a ..dead ringer. And that's the truth...Now, whoever said History was boring! Educate someone.

Greed, God and a Glimpse for me...

First, I'm a Phi Theta Kappa advisor, and we have a series of seminars on this year's honors study topic: Power. The full title is "Gold, Gods, and Glory: the study of global power" or something like that. I'm too busy to look it up.

MY take on things is changing. I'm like someone who's risen from kryo and I'm just now starting to "get it." Somehow, in my artful course dodging and slacking in school, I've managed to not pay attention to some very important stuff. Seems like the more I pay attention now, the more shocked I am at my ignorance.

This weekend, for example, I toured a nice little museum at Fort Leavenworth, featuring a historical perspective of that fort in the westward expansion. Within the exhibit, a display was offered, titled "Beyond Lewis and Clark."

At virtually every station of every exhibit, I remarked to my brother, "Hmmm, I didn't know that!" Of course, if I don't write it down immediately, I tend to forget again, for my brain has not been wired for detail and history. I do recall some of the bigger surprises, however. I won't share most, for these revelations make me seem really, really stupid. Here's just one to give you a flavor of my lack of historical enlightenment: I thought Lewis and Clark just went on the road alone together. I did not realize they had 46 in their expedition, that they were armed, that it was a very diverse group, etc. *blushing at my ignorance*

In addition to everything else I'm supposedly working on for myself, I think I may need to investigate taking a history course every now and again, now that I'm a "grown up" and would care to learn the content.

The most important general insight I gained from the exhibit is again something many historically hip people already know: our fair country has always had greed as a motivator. Lately here in this blog and elsewhere, I've been fuming about consumerism, affluenza, media literacy, etc...but you know what? It's nothing new. In fact, if anything, it may be a bit less powerful than in 1804 when L & C (and many other soldier-explorers) were charged by GOD and country to head west and take it all in. At least current consumerism and empire building has less to do with god's divine drive; it's more honestly all about the Benjamins.

The second insight I'm coming away with: The United States of America has been one brash, ball-sy, and downright fortunate country. Things happened very fast from the signing of the declaration to the exploration and development of the landscape--especially if you think of all the limitations (no phones, no cars, no swimming pools) in transportation, navigation and so on. Wow, those people were very aggressive and working very hard in just that 25 or so years. Again, this epiphany, that the US was developing so fast, is not news to anyone but me. In history class, I always bumbled through dates, never realizing anything about how it interconnected. Now, I'm starting (just getting a glimpse) to see how things fit together. Also, when I was young, 25 years seemed like forever, I'm sure.

Ah, thanks for reading. I just needed a place to confess my ignorance and document my new perspective on what I've ranted about so much: greed.

Charge!

So, this Foley guy is making all the news for his indiscretions lately. Yes, he held an important public office. Yes, anyone practicing such behavior needs to be held accountable...

...but for my money, I have issues with the fickle American media and consuming public. Soon, unfortunately, the Foley scandal, like others before it, will be yesterday's news and will likely be swept under the rug.

And, shouldn't we hold all our elected representatives accountable for more than their sexual follies and perversions? Why is it that we aren't all much more attuned to every elected official's participation in PAC's, lobbying tom-foolery, and their every-day voting on every issue? Why is it that C-SPAN has such dismal ratings (and why do the meetings have such low attendance ?)?

We get in an uproar when an occasional individual gets caught with his digital pants down (or someone takes an extra dip in the cookie jar) but sometimes, it seems to me, we should be equally passionate about less morally-charged indiscretions which are much more likely to affect our every-day lives.

I am the worst offender. I don't know who's who or what their up to, presently. However, I did have a good discussion with a former state representative last weekend, and I'm about to embark on citizenship! He suggested (for us in Kansas) to start with the League of Women Voters as an unbiased, informative site. I've got it bookmarked, and I'm going to gather a headful of knowledge. With that, I hope to be able to vote intelligently.

Join me, won't you?

Your SuperPower: Infallibility?

Infallibility would be something, wouldn't it? For those following the news, the Pope was hard pressed to explain himself recently when he "enraged Muslims in a speech a week ago in Germany quoting 14th century Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Palaeologus, who said everything the Prophet Mohammad brought was evil "such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached." Not to parse doctrine, (why would an infallible Pope have to soft-peddle or apologize?) I can't help but wrestle with infallibility for myself.

To be truly infallible a person would be incapable of failure or err. Wow, what I wouldn't give for that. To never make a mistake? Geez. It would seem, on the surface, a charmed life, eh? (Imagine a politician or [other] salesman who might be infallible--potent stuff!) Talk about someone to be trusted. "I'm putting my nest egg where Bob the Infallible banks, his investments are infallible." What a spouse an infallible person might make.

Then again, being infallible would be a tough role. It would be challenging to bite my tongue and resist saying, "I told you so" all the time. It would be frustrating when people ignored my advice or did not follow-through on my recommendations. It would just flat be tough being right all the time.

I guess I'm a person who revels in my mistakes. I learn from them. They're what make me...well, human. How could I learn anything if I were incapable of making mistakes to learn from? What a conundrum.

And while it might be nice to lean on an infallible person sometimes, I think they'd get to be tiresome company. I like a good hearty debate with friends. I wallow in the gray matter between the black and white of things. An infallible person would not see any grayscale, would they? They'd see (and say) it like it is, and that would be that. (Come to think of it, I've known too many people who must imagine themselves to be infallible...hmmm.)

I guess I don't envy the Pope, or anyone else who's burdened with the expectation of infallibility. Sure, a fella could hedge, maybe, and say, "Well, I'm only infallible in matters of X," but would that really buy you any slack? (I have my doubts, but when it comes to some definitions and labels, I'm something of an absolutist.) If I had to carve out my niche of infallibility, what could it be in? What would I want it to be in? Absolute certainty is attractive to some people, but...really...why? Where's the fun in that?

My greatest challenge is parenting, but I sure would not want to be an infallible parent, unless I could be a secretively infallible parent. Pity the child who had to live within the shadow of a know-it-all parent.

So I guess I should take more stock in being less-than-perfect, for not necessarily knowing everything. There's something to be said for being a work in progress. Those days when I wish I had all the answers, when I'm floundering over indecisions, I should just reckon with being human, after all.

Sensei Fumio Demura visited my farm this weekend, as part of the Valley Center Rec Commission Dojo's weekend of workshops. He is my father-in-law's sensei, and my father in law has been involved in karate for over 25 years.

I've met him and been on the outskirts of his visits and trainings for most of ten years, and I've noted something remarkable about him. I think it's characteristic of all truly great people: humility.

Here's a man who's given his life to his art, who travels the world on a never-ending whirlwind of training seminars, honors, etc... (they probably don't even allow him to use frequent flyer points, but if they did, he'd have millions of 'em). He has trained celebrities, movie stars, etc... The word is etc!

Still, when he's not out there training on the ring or mat or whatever, he's like Jesus was reported to be. He takes time to sit with children. He makes small talk with everyone. He once made me an oragami boat after I'd folded a frog for him--I still have the boat.

This is a man who could literally kill with a flick of his wrist, but he is kind, gentle, down-to-earth. There is much to be learned of true greatness, and I'm learning it seems to be infused with sincerity and humility. I may not have the patience for karate, but I'd like to think of the sensei's (is it plural?) as role models.

I've got issues

Currently, I'm wading through students' bids for research topics, controversial issues for argumentative/persuasive writing. I'm surprised at the duplication, especially when I warned folks that no two students would have the same issue approved. I find this bizarre, for it seems to me that everything has its controversy.

Lately, I've been exposed (via NPR, check it out) to several issues related to food and fuel. For example, we acknowledge being petroelum dependent, yet we do little/nothing to alter our lifestyles (still drive SUV's, still not supporting alternative energies, still shun public transportation, etc...). AND, more importantly, we seldom reckon with underlying uses of energy...I heard that 20% of our nation's energy needs are spent in the transportation of food products. The source suggested analyzing our own cupboards and refrigerators. They cited Iowa as an example: more than half of the average consumer's food was brought 1500 miles or more in order to show up on the table in Iowa. That is exceptionally silly, since all of the food products could (in season) be readily available locally, for Iowa is , of course, a fertile and productive region.

So what gives in Iowa? What grows in Iowa? Corn. Not ears of corn ending up as 'corn on the cob,' either. Most of the corn produced in Iowa is processed into....drumroll please...high fructose corn syrup (HFCS). Runner up for corn usage? Feeder cattle. Both HFCS and feeder cattle are horrificly wasteful, in terms of the amount of corn needed to get results. The ratio is something like 10 bushels of grain to yield 1 pound of meat. (That, in itself, is another issue--the way western diets are so meat-centered and thusly wasteful.) Those Iowa corn farmers are not often the hayseed, overall wearin' individualists we once knew. They are becoming large corporate enterprises with names seldom demonized: ADM, Monsanto, etc.

I operate a billing service for natural gas used in irrigation. I know quite well that it takes a good deal of natural gas (ie petro-resources) to water the corn that is then squandered when produced. It is not uncommon for a farmer who has only 1-2 circles of corn to use--get this--$100,000 in natural gas in a SINGLE MONTH. That figure is not even considered above, when I cited 20% of energy usage going to food transportation.

...so, what I'm saying here (in a fashion not to be modelled by my student readers) is that we are wasteful, of course, but more importantly, we are not mindful of our waste (in either petrofuels or food value). The media has our attention fixed on pump price, but there is much, much more to consider. Once one cocks a suspicious brow at the reflection, it is both painful and difficult to accept. "Oh, it's those rich oil barons." is much more simple than, "Oh my, it's me!"

Peppy Song Quest--Chip in!

Okay, since my phone can play mp3's, I want to hop it up with some fun/peppy tunes. The problem is, my playlist is terribly short. Here's the sort of stuff I consider appropriate, but obviously I need help (on so very many levels):
Blind Melon's 'No Rain'
Rusted Root's 'Food & Creative Love'
Men @ Work's two hits
Lou Bega's 'Mambo #5'
ELO's 'El Dorado Overture prelude'

...Honestly, I've not given this much thought, but I hope both of my readers :) will.

Contribute. Save my ears.

Though it may not fit this mix, I also really enjoy the old school, true cowboy songs of the ol' west. Problem is, I've only had a passing interest and don't even know an artist of this ilk.

Drive Time

Why did the chicken cross the road, anyway?

Why don't we think things are just good enough in our own back yards?

I'm just filling space to get around this picture.

Ah, now...recently I moved to a homestead north of Wichita. It's quite a drive for someone around here, but I grew up in Western Kansas. Back home, we would drive 90 miles for a current movie release. It was also typically that far to get any kind of fast food (which was a treat when I was a kid--now I despise it, but eat it when life demands [another blog on fast food]. I lived in the country as a kid, and I wanted that for my children, so I sought after just the right place for, honestly, decades. Of course, re$ource$ kept me from buying the farm, until now.

This place of mine needs a name. [another blog, another time]

I have a commute of 20 minutes in the early morning, a bit longer when radars and traffic inhibit me in the afternoon. The national average commute was 24.4 minutes in 2002 (most reliable current data I could find via a US Census piece. I guess, once again, I'm average.

Those reading in the Wichita area have an average commute of 16.5 minutes, FYI.

This is the first week I've made the drive daily. Altogether over 200 miles. It will cost me over $2,000 in fuel alone this school year, given my big 4x4 Chevy truck and my driving style. I'm in the market for something economical.

Usually a nice commute gives me time to get my game on (early am) and then leave work at work (pm). Lately, however, drive time thoughts have been collecting in my head. I seem most moody when behind the wheel (especially Saturdays, when I get road rage while garage sailing). I've been thinking things like:

gotta get a cheaper ride (guilt)

i'm spending almost an hour a day driving...I need to multi-task behind the wheel

(early morning) wonder when the next deer will spring out?

gotta get a cheaper ride

*#$*@ petrolarchy we live in

this would take most of the day to travel 100 years ago

books on tape...books on tape...

sometimes, I even miss the semester I taught 5 classes online

So, anyway, there are other, less publishable things collecting in my head as I roll on down the road. I think I'll surf the net and find others to commiserate with on the subject of commuting.

I've been FEZed

Some mysterious stranger (likely a student-reader of this blog) has altered the course of my life. Last May I wrote about a Fez, and Tuesday morning, upon entering my office--there it was, the stuff of dreams. I now have in my possession an incredible Fez. (Thanks! Is it mine to keep?)

Other ramblings and updates...or...what else does a 40-something guy do in the middle of the night when sleep evades him...

School is ON and I am frankly so into it I am not sleeping much. I don't know why. Monday I woke up at 3:3o. Tuesday I was at my desk at 5am. And now, early Wednesday morning, I'm awake and eager to get back at it.

I bought a new cell phone. I'd like to think it was not prompted by cell phone envy. (James Bond would envy some of the phones my students take for granted.) Mine was from 2002 and was unreliable at best. The new one sports more bells and whistles than I'll ever use, but it has an mp3 player that is promising, even if it gets used for little else.

My beagle wheezes. (I just like the sound of that sentence, not particularly the sound of Roger's chronic lung problem.) You'd think it would inspire me to, say, quit smoking or something. At night he grunts around, something like a pot-bellied pig.

Parenting is such a great purpose and joy in life--if only I'd known, I would have made many more kids, back in the day. Herding toddlers in my 40's is...well, challenging, enlightening, rewarding, tiring, etc.

The Blue Man Group is going to be in Oklahoma this semester. I will be there.

I am a lifetime honorary member and current advisor of Phi Theta Kappa, the academic honorary of community colleges--but I graduated at the middle of my high school class, tanked on the ACT, and frittered away years and fortunes in college. Nonetheless, PTK is cool [another blog, another day].

Tonight in the tub my 3 yr old was fascinated with his manhood. Female readers of this blog are likely thinking, 'some things about men never change.'

Steven Wright is one of the world's greatest comedians. (Look him up.)

My homestead is overgrown with weeds. At first, I had no equipment to manage the problem (that was a good excuse!). Now my Super C Farmall runs like a top and my newly-revamped ZTR Hustler mower can run circles around--well, around anything. Travel was always in the way, for I was out of town/state every two weeks this summer. Now, I'm rooted, back at work, going no where for 3 to 4 weeks at a stretch. My latest excuse won't last much longer--that it's too hot or humid or wet out. The weeds are grateful. My conscience is heavy-laden with guilt...BUT, I rationalize and theorize until I can live with it.
Here's my latest (and in some ways viable) excuse: I want this place to be 'environmentally responsible' and I want to live in harmony with nature instead of constantly kill and mow and spray everything. (Maybe that one will carry me until it snows!)

Writing blogs is a practice in vulnerability and exposure as well as expression. Reading blogs is a practice of voyeurism and enlightenment. I don't know what anyone gets from reading my blog, really, but I've been dormant for three months, so I gave you a break.

I read that over 8 million people are blogging weekly.

I think I'll go do some laundry.

It's foggy outside.

This blog is getting foggy, too.

Adieu.

PS: 'adieu' would be a terrible word for Wheel of Fortune, Hangman, etc.

Recent Rant

Here's an editorial I wrote recently, to be published in a local paper:

‘Tis the season of new beginnings for many engaged in academics. We look forward to this time as an opportunity to meet people, learn a little something, and, in general advance. As a teacher, I strive to deliver my material more effectively every semester. For me, it’s another chance to do better. Many students also approach a new term with the same optimism and enthusiasm.

For those readers outside the halls of learning, however, it’s just late summer. Those folks may bemoan increased traffic, the return of lumbering yellow busses, and pesky pedestrians at school crossings. Parents may be gnashing their teeth and pinching pennies as they pony up for supplies and tuition. I imagine some people far removed from academics simply do not ‘get it.’

I contributed a biographical tidbit for a class reunion write-up once. In it, I stated, “After suffering a lengthy bout of academia, Mark is now settling into a new job.” I did not attend the reunion, but a close friend did. He reported many concerned people inquiring of my health, “you know, after he had that…sickness or whatever.” My former classmates didn’t get it. They were so far removed from education, they thought I had actually been ill, when in fact, I had simply been caught up in a decade of college.

From my vantage point, the potential for distance between citizens and education seems to be an issue on both sides of the school yard. If education is happening inside hallowed institutions in some hermetically sealed environment, I question its value. When learning and teaching have become practices and professions isolated from the surrounding world, the ‘real’ world, what is really going on? Likewise, if parents or members of a community hold learning at arm’s length, it not only sends mixed signals to students, it also suggests that school lacks validity. Primary and secondary schools must be no more than holding pens, and post-secondary schools must simply be diploma mills and money pits

Why wouldn’t everyone care what happens in the classroom? The United States has mandatory school attendance for children, tuition assistance for college, and millions in tax dollars funding schools for one simple reason: education offers hope. Requiring and supporting schools, so the theory goes, has a payoff—an investment in the future.

I am one of those Ed-u-ma-cators who has always been in school. I’ve now spent almost 30 years involved in post-secondary, higher education. I am throwing that in, just in case you are a new reader. The rest of my readership is likely already braced for the rest. I realize as I punch this out on the keyboard that we all want to be validated in our lives and work, that we all hope what we do is relevant. In my field, particularly the Humanities, that’s not always the way it feels. We have all heard critics of education and can cite any number of examples of its failings. I’m worried what may happen to my children once they start school. Who hasn’t endured (or paid for) what seemed to be a worthless course?

Maybe that is the crux of the matter. If all of education were relevant, applied, and engaged in reality, maybe then it would be more appreciated. That kind of education would have an influx of private dollars, for corporations and philanthropists and every-day folk would all chip in. That school would have an open atmosphere of ‘educators’ of all walks of life coming in…and also an outpouring of direct benefits to the surrounding community. Students would be equipped in the classroom and in the field, and they would contribute substantively to their environs.

Such a symbiotic system of learning has been proposed and addressed by a variety of theorists and academics. Variations on the theme have been given flattering names, been campaigned for and against, and absorbed more than a little of our tax dollars.

I am a proponent of one of those theories, myself. It has a fancy name, and in many situations it’s federally supported. I know enough to know it is not the end-all, the panacea, but…try this on for size: service-learning.

This pedagogy claims that students can do altruistic acts in their community and learn from it. In other words, kids of all ages can volunteer and contribute, and their actions enhance their education. Likewise, their education can amplify their effects on the community. It teaches students to give back, it encourages relevance in the classroom, and it minimizes this distance between school and the real world. Chances are, it’s already being practiced to some degree in virtually every school. I hope service learning and similar strategies can bring people together over all these issues of academics.

Put all the tax woes, lofty theories, and issues aside this month. Do yourself and your school a favor. Check it out. Don’t haunt the playground, for someone will scream ‘pedophile.’ Don’t bolt right into the building unannounced—you could be considered a terrorist. (Isn’t it a troubled time we live in!) I recently visited a grade school and just the smells…floor wax, plastic aprons for painting, crayons…brought it all back for me. Attend a school function. Ask a student, “Say, what’s it like in there?”

The answers are pleasantly surprising.

Little LIAR

Some folks don't like reading "kid entries" but I find them a good springboard to related, sometimes deeper thoughts.

My three (3) year old is a liar. Mark this date--well, about a month or two back--he told his first lie. Sure, it wasn't very convincing, but it was a milestone. I've been pondering this ever-since...how did he come about this business of lying? (Certainly not honestly!) I guess, maybe, it has been modeled by television characters, relatives...maybe even by me(?) but how could such a wee one pick up such a devious craft by observation?

My wife had a good theory: self-preservation. In order to avoid pain, he fabricates. He's been telling stories and using his imagination since he could utter, and she thinks he is simply applying story-telling to avoidance.

I take a darker view.

His innocence is gone. Vaporized in a few short, twisted, untruths. No longer is he the pure little innocent who would fess up to anything. Now he has joined the ranks of the enlightened. In this little way, he is matured. I wish he would always have been honest. I did not know how attractive that quality was until I experienced it through him. (I've not known anyone else who's purely honest, ever!) Now, another little bit of him is...gone.

It's as if he's taken from the tree of knowledge, and he's learned deception is the order of the day. Now he will begin half-stepping and half-truthing his way through so many perils, complicating his life by having to build lie on top of lie. His world will now be eggshells. He will be ensnared in lies. He will be tripped up by lies. He will, if he has not already, be injured by someone else's lies.

At first I was amused. "Did you poop your pants, son?"/"No, Roger [our beagle] did it."

Now, I find little humor in even his most inventive lies. I see them for what they are: grown up.

Moving

Spent the morning moving, rather than grading. I tell everyone it's my last move. I'd even like to be buried on this place, back in the trees, maybe turned into mulch/fertilizer for the garden some day.

Whenever I move, I am amazed at the accumulation of stuff. I wrote about stuff a few weeks ago. Anyway, the most interesting things resurface during a move. I'm finding some of my most prized possessions. I am an admitted packrat, and I've got boxes with nothing but trinkets and memories--for example: my grandfather's old shaving brush, a tap dance heel from Lana the dance teacher (fashioned into a key chain fob), a dozen scrapbook pages my son made when he was 2-3...and that's not all, I've also gathered up a lot of other people's old stuff. It's like pseudo-memories...things they should have found memorable but put in garage/estate sales. I've had my eye on a fez for some time at an antique store, for instance. Why would anyone need a fez, you (and my wife) ask?

Who wouldn't want one of these babies?

Anyway, I know I should have a garage sale, but now I have outbuildings and 11 acres to fill, so I don't see myself ever, ever having another sale. Let the kids sort it all out in a few decades, I say! Meanwhile, I'll just keep accumulating stuff that might have some interest value or function some day...and hope I never have to move again!

The Day After

Well, as anticipated, I survived my concert. I had an extra hour to practice my little ditty on the vibes before the show, thinking that I would nail it in concert--well, that didn't happen, but I did feel comfortable that I did my best. We had a reasonably-good-sized crowd, under 100 but somewhere over 60-ish; about 25 of those were my family and students. I could not believe, on the way home, just how relaxed and calm I felt. Today is the same. "I feel good," as the Godfather of Soul (or is it Funk) James Brown, would say!

I think the title of this entry is good in itself, reflecting my survival of the thermonuclear terrors of the TMU concert; however, when I typed the title, it reminded me of The Day After (1983) (TV) , which I vividly recall after seeing it telecast in the '80's. (We all watched it at Kansas State together, eager to see KU vaporized--which I now realize is maybe a bit callous.) I find it strange that nuclear obliteration is not given much attention these days. Sure we hear of the up-coming threat of a "nuclear Iran," but from my (admittedly limited) knowledge, we're surely well-armed globally to still toast the planet. [Read some Jonathan Schell...The Fate of the Earth scared the pee-waddin' out of me 20 years ago.]

For now, however, instead of looking to the skies for falling missles, I think I'll go home and play with my kids. Like everyone else, I guess there's no point getting all worried about it right now, eh?

Heebie Jeebies

I wonder about the origins of the phrase "Heebie Jeebies," don't you? Regardless, I've got 'em in aces today, for tonight is another TMU concert and I've got to play a vibraphone (like a xylophone that echoes). Otherwise, I'm not that uptight, not more than for any other show.

You'd think I could control my anxiety; after all, I'm a seasoned speaker and veteran teacher. I'm over 40 for cryin' out loud. Nonetheless, I'm as nervous as a turkey at Thanksgiving (it's the best I could come up with right now, sorry). I'm documenting these fears here, for hereafter, I'm sure I'll look back on the moment and laugh.

For now, however, I feel like I'm going to be revealing my privates for a very discriminating audience. I feel like I did when I took my MA exams. I am more tense than I can ever recall.

The piece in question calls on me not only to pick out two notes at a time on an instrument I do not know (me, who can't read music), but also to follow a script, to recite my lines, to even throw jelly beans at the crowd. We're to be mic'd, a la Janet Jackson (headset mic's), so all my counting and cursing would be broadcast over the auditorium. We're not anticipating a big crowd, but I have sent press information to four newspapers, a dozen radio stations, several online media, etc...so who knows? Maybe it's a slow night in the entertainment world, and we'll pack the house. (?) Our early concerts were usually about balanced between crowd and band members. Last December, however, we had over 100 in the crowd.

For some reason, I'm most concerned about letting down our fearless leader, for this is a piece of his own creation. I want us to give it a good debut. He's confessed that we're less polished than for any concert he's led us into previously, which does nothing to build my confidence. He's usually good at providing members feedback, but Tuesday nothing was said to me, not even "That was excrement, Jarvis." I take this as a very bad sign, as if he's given up on me or just letting me ride. The result, for me, is redoubled effort to do my part well...but I have absolutely no confidence.

A week or so back, I wrote another entry on this experience (when I was not so mortified) at our band blog Open Source Composition. You can access it here, if ever you would want to.

Today, at any rate, I'm just trying to keep the faith. I've been at work since 430am, and our show's at 730pm...hope I can be fresh and alive for that, when the moment arrives.

Meanwhile, I'll fret and smoke and fritter and stew--wow, there are a lot of words for my condition!

May Day! May Day!

Yes, it is the first of May, that is, May Day. Hooray. I learned more about May Day at Wiki and other sites. It was on this day in history that Elvis married Priscilla. "Citizen Kane" first had a debut.

I am reminded, vaguely, of war movies, where anguished and anxious airmen screamed, "May Day! May Day!" (I don't know why they didn't just scream: "Oh $%^&_()^*%, we're getting hit!" or something...Curious still as to the reasoning behind "May Day" being some kind of alert?)

"May Day!"
Personally, the scheduled marches, etc. for the rights of Mexican workers in the US have me on alert. Yes, there have already been some demonstrations, but today's walk-outs, boycotts, and marches (should they come to the head they are anticipated to) really give me cause for alarm. Things may not escalate as I imagine; I doubt there will be thousands of cars torched as in France last summer. I don't suppose the nation will be crippled by a "Day without Mexicans," as they, themselves, described this day. I'll still be able to work away at my desk, slavishly grading essays...

...however, I do belive that "Times, They Are A Changin'"
When I was a child, growing up in the Midwest, rural, agricultural setting of SW Kansas, I knew of today's "undocumented workers" as (pardon me for trampling your sensitivities)...wetbacks. When I heard the term "illegal aliens," I looked to the skies, wondering how many aliens lived among us legally. When the border patrol wagons hauled off all our "migrant workers" and my father for interrogation, I was alarmed, for I did not even know it was wrong to hire people who wanted to work. All the euphemization of the issue clearly points out, at least to me, that it truly IS an issue. Public venacular is veneered by political and media connotating the heck out of things with euphemisms.

Thus, to use the now-out-of-vogue term "illegal aliens," I have to say: "You had me at illegal." This will cast me as a rabid republican, I'm sure (though I am not)...but to my mind, if these folks, these 11 million people, are here illegally, well then...treat them like felons. Clean up the situation. Or change the law and the status and (as is already happening) the language.

This is my blog's first toe-dip into political issues, but friends, we need to be wary. According to the 2000 census, "12.5 percent of respondents to the 2000 Census identified themselves as Hispanic, up from 9.0 percent in 1990, making them one of the fastest growing demographic groups in the United States. The Hispanic ethnicity category on the Census includes Mexicans (7.3 percent of the total U.S. population in 2000), Puerto Ricans (1.2 percent), Cubans (0.4 percent) and a host of other Latin and South American ethnicities." If an additional 11 million people are illegal aliens (that is, likely NOT part of the census)...and if that demographic keeps growing as it has...

People, "you'd better start swimmin' / or you'll sink like a stone," as Dylan warned. It seems to me that our nation moves at the speed of lag. I am the same way, if one were to personify a nation...when something is bothering me, but I don't feel up to coping with it, I put it off, bury it a while, look the other way. It was thus with the grass growing up through my driveway, and it is now with the papers I should be grading. Likewise, it seems our leadership (and generally, our citizenry) has feigned ignorance and apathy about as long as possible. Now we're in a maelstrom, a tight spot, a real pickle...and things are getting turbulent, uncomfortable, and sour.

Political pundits will variously report that the other party refuses to act on this for their own party's self interest. (That sentence is about as convoluted as I see the whole situation.) It does, indeed, seem we are at a legislative stand-off. Obviously, nothing is going to come from the Executive branch, and it's too early for the Judicial bunch to accomplish much...

...that leaves the people. Right now, it seems to me, the only people taking much action are those out protesting today.

We'd better wise up, embrace our fellow man, and move on.

On Scrapbooking

When I was a boy, I was a motor-head. I worked on cars. I went to car shows. I fantasized about cars. I subscribed to car magazines…But when I became a man, I put away childish things, and I socked all my attention into the girls draped over the cars in those same magazines. That impulse, too, came to pass, and now I’m an old married man.

It is not so different for most people. Instead of cars, my brother was a sports fanatic. He can still rattle off statistics from any major sporting event ten or twenty years back. My cousin was a letterman in every sport—his letter jacket was weighted with brass bangles and patches. Now, he has a bad back, and he’s content to sit it out on the sidelines or the couch. A co-worker is very involved in fishing, and to this day he makes lures and excuses to go fishing regularly.

For some folks, however, an innocent interest can become a fixation. These hapless souls find their lives governed, their time and purchasing powers under the complete control of their obsession. Like smarmy drug traffickers, commercial vendors sprout up on every street corner, eager to cater to the need, whether it be jewelry, baseball cards, used books, or…the most addictive mania of all: Scrapbooking.

It begins with a simple book you glue pictures and mementoes into, but it evolves into so much more. One usually discovers Scrapbooking-gone-mad too late. First, the wife will be a little preoccupied, flipping through magazines. (They have names you will never understand, unless you’re on the inside.) Then, she’ll have a fender-bender making an impulsive turn toward a scrapbook store. A phone call or two will go un-returned. A meal will be missed. Some bills will go unpaid while “hobby expenses” in the family budget grow like the national debt. Sooner or later, she will be at a crop on your anniversary, or she may miss a child’s birthday for a good online auction of scrapbook supplies. Your children and pets often will have their hands or paws “inked” for a cute print on a scrapbook page. Eventually, strange things end up missing, only to be incorporated into a scrapbook: your driver’s license, a letter from a friend, a candy wrapper. I recently woke to find my wife hovering over me with scissors, cutting a lock of my hair to scrapbook.

One would be wise to listen for some warnings, too. Alas, I was not attentive, but now, in reflection, I can easily document these snippets of conversation that should have led me to intervene:
Stand over here, honey, the light will work better for a photo.
Oh, and can I get an extra French fry box-thingy for my scrapbook.
Would you wear this? it will coordinate better with my page.
Let’s visit [city-of-choice], I hear they have a nice, new scrapbook store.
Let’s go to the zoo/carnival/fair/camping/city-of-choice…new stamps I like.
We should celebrate Kawanza; there’s so many neat stickers for that holiday.
Let’s buy the blue house, it will match some papers I’ve been planning to use.
I think we should have another girl, ‘cuz there’s some cute new dye cuts out now.
Can we reenact your mugging? It would make a clever scrapbook page.
Can we save the [placenta, umbilical cord, circumcision remains] for my scrapbook?
I can’t attend [your commencement/our wedding/your internment]—scrap crop today.

I did an Internet search, and there is no 12 step recovery program out there. Either the field is too new, or as I suspect, one simply cannot recover. They do have their own support groups, called “crops,” which are strange soirees of paper cutting and picture snipping. Smells of hot glue and bizarre fixatives hang in the air. They speak of coluzzles and xyrons and sizzix and sizzlets—words that would tongue-tie Dr. Seuss himself. These scrappers huddle over their work, clucking and chattering with one another, comparing pages and products and prices—sometimes to the wee hours of the morning…then come the scrapbook retreats, and then the conventions…some rumor there may be Scrapbooking resorts and monasteries.

I have hauled supplies and machines to these scrapbook get-togethers, then been shooed away. Scrapbookers are addicted, yes, but they are also people of great passion for preserving memories, telling stories, sharing family and folklore with one-another. One without the passion has no place at a crop or a camp. I feel much more secure back at my house, at my computer, aimlessly surfing the Internet for some hobby of my own which might be so rewarding.

Temporal Mechanics Union

Temporal Mechanics Union
Please come to my concert! I'm doing all I can to muster up a good crowd for what should be a great show!

Greeeeeeen Acres is the place to be!

Though it may be premature, for something could still go awry in the closing, yesterday we bought the farm! (Not in the colloquial, the literal...The farm I've always wanted!) It has about 5 acres of woods, 6 acres of pasture, a swell little home, several out buildings and four garage bays.
Indeed, I am like ol' Oliver Douglass and my wife is a bit like Lisa. I may be "citified," but I think I can still turn some soil and make something happen. Lora, like Lisa, is a bit reluctant, for she's never lived in the country before. (If you know Green Acres, you also may remember how they had to scale a pole to use the telephone--likewise, our mobile phones don't "get good tower" out there, unless one marches to the high end of the pasture.) Whitewater is no Hooterville, but it will have to do.
Overall, this is so much better than I even dreamed of a couple years ago, when I thought I would move to/take over the family homestead out in ugly ol' Ulysses. Sure that place had heritage, but this place has trees! With any luck, I can transfer some of the vibe from my dad's farm to my farm. I hope to be able to raise my boys like I was raised, but better! I can't wait to get them into 4H, to buy some livestock, to live on the land...
Amazing how things fall into place, too. Just yesterday evening, I was listening to Fresh Air on NPR when I encountered a brilliant agri-bio-theorist, Michael Pollan. He has a swell new book out (which I ordered moments ago) The Omnivore's Dilemma.
Among other things, he suggests that eating return to the sacred relationship it once meant with the land, that every meal should be an expression of our relationship to what keeps us alive. He suggests conscious living, sustainable agriculture, and conscientious consumption. As I transition back to my agrairian roots, I hope to put such theories into practice. (I already have a great garden designed, and I've found a good source for chickens and windmill parts.)
At last, it might seem, I may be able to live closer to my values. For the next month, during closing, all these mights and maybe's are going to drive me mad, but I'll just work off all the angst by packing a few boxes.

Mad Science

Yesterday on Science Friday, an NPR program I seldom miss, the discussion centered on medical advances and what may be on the horizon. It was timely, for just that same morning, I'd had a 1/2 hour conversation with a student about cyberkinetics (brain chip implants) featured in her research essay. For lunch, I spent another 1/2 hour brainstorming a research paper on animal-to-human organ transplantation. I read related blogs daily, and encountered one just yesterday (again) on how eyes work, how they may be "bionic" in the future, and how virtually all vision problems will be conquered in our lifetime, unknown to the next generation. WOW there's so very much going on in medical-technical applications and advances!
Neurotechnology is about to break out. So will advances in stem cell exploration and celluar if not complete organ manufacturing. Designer traits and implanted thoughts are NOT science fiction anymore. Just last week someone was able to generate an internal organ, a bladder, for installation in a person. (Personally, I would have chosen a more flattering organ, not wanting my name to be permanently associated with a bladder; he claims it was one of the easier to make.)
A caller to Science Friday raised a good issue: artificial, bionic limbs and implants, newly-generated or animal-transplanted organs...all of it is grossly expensive to research and practice. The actual 'body modification' might cost and individual a hundred thousand dollars. The caller was puzzled, himself an MD, that so much money is going into research for the benefit of so few. He claimed basic health care needs are not adequate nor available for all, even in the US. His point was refuted, the counter argument running something about it being a matter of distribution rather than access.
I think there's much more to it than that. Someone stands to gain (financially) from engineering expensive eyes. I hear the coins chinking in the temple of technology, like a jackpot payout of jingle bells. I smell money, and not the old wallet, butt sweat, dog-eared dollar--big money (like those 2ft x 5 ft checks you always see being awarded to folks). I can taste the bitter beer of big business, and it's making me girn (not to be confused with grin, no not at all).
Though I love my technology, I don't know that I want so much of it incorporated into my body. I don't want to be a cyborg. I don't want to compete with cyborgs. I don't even know what to think of those who's upgrades are wholly organic rather than mechanical. It all feels a bit like grafting a sixth finger on a pianist's hand. It changes everthing. It plays plate techtonic tap dances with what was once a level playing field.
...and all this is to say nothing of the future of full-blown genetic engineering and the potential of human cloning. That, I guess, will have to wait for another post.
I'm now of an age when I can say I saw things coming. I'm happy I can get it in writing on this blog, so later on down the road, as many of these come into the news again (and ultimately to fruition) I can say "I told you so."

Spring means More Stuff

Yes, it's garage sale season, and most every weekend, I'm out there picking over other people's stuff. It's more than a hobby; it's an obsession. The darker side is the Estate Sale, where one picks through the remains of the dead. At least, I guess, it's not as commercial as a flea market. And hey, I'm not buying retail. Reduce, re-use, recycle...and all that. I burrow through some of the nastiest stuff, spend a tank of gas every weekend, work up quite a sweat in the summer, and seldom to I ask, "for what?" (though my wife does, if I go solo and return with a truckload).

We would like to get our own home again, something in the country. Something with outbuildings, like I grew up with. Of course, the truth is, I likely just need more space to store more stuff. On that, I leave you with insighful words from George Carlin:

A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you're taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody's got a little pile of stuff. All the little piles of stuff. And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn't want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff. They never bother with that crap you're saving. All they want is the shiny stuff. That's what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get...more stuff!

(if anyone has not heard the entire bit on "stuff" it is well worth downloading)

Spring

Here's a little ditty from my favorite author, Tom Robbins, from his book Villa Incognito. I think it's a good ode to spring:

April. Spring was on the land like an itch. The whole countryside seemed to be scratching itself awake--lazily, luxuriously, though occasionally scratching so hard its nails hit bone, that old cold calcium that lies beneath our tingles. Tiny frogs, raked into alertness, were being scratched from muck and mud. Tiny buds, as bright as blisters, were being scratched from hardwood. The trees themselves, as juiced on sap at Tanuki [an Ancestoral Animal being in the novel] ever was on booze (though the trees had a great deal more dignity), were scratching long blue notes from the sky.
A thousand insects tested their motors, anxious for this year's grand prix of nectar and blood. Crows that had looked so black against December's drifts now found their stark menace diluted, the tints of spring doing to them what Technicolor was to do to Boris Karloff. No mild yellow ray had sweetened their spooky cries, however, and the crows went right on auditioning for the demon role in some imaginary Kabuki, their squawk periodically obliterating both peep and buzz. Those caw calls must have had a bugling effect, because nature was definately out of bed and getting ready to put its shoulder to the wheel.

Garage Sailing

Outside Looking In: Garage Sailing

Flowers are blooming, lawns are greening, and, at last, the signs of preseason Garage Sailing are beginning to show. Now, I am an English teacher and “sailing” is not a misspelling, rather a specific (and wholly correct) use of the verb sail. Of course, the term is traditionally coupled with nautical pursuits, but it is not limited to such, to wit: “to start out on a voyage or journey; to move along or progress smoothly or effortlessly.” Thus, “sailing” is a more concise and descriptive term for “going around to garage sales hunting for bargains.” Indeed, the practice of Garage Sailing is an adventure in the free market, and if done with some forethought, it can be even more. I would like to see Garage Sailing as an Olympic summer game, the basis for a reality television show, or at least elevated to a higher status in our American pop culture.

The casual observer could start with the Garage Sale sign. These handspun, garish icons of what’s still right in our free economy are just beginning to pop up everywhere. Their kin, real estate and political signage, may market mansions and mayors, but they are not true Americana. Those other signs (frustrations for avid Garage Sailors) are manufactured, printed, properly permitted and posted by regulation. The signs of Garage Sales, however, are a randy hodgepodge of creativity.

Sometimes, when my budget can take no more Sailing, I’ll simply cruise and admire the advertising for Sales: the hand-painted T-Shirt tacked to a fence, the refrigerator box standing at the center of an intersection, the wanna-be graffiti artists spray painting of country blacktop. This is American spirit at its zenith. This is among the best of our culture’s industrious, creative expression.

All this promotion is not for naught.

Like many underrated bastions of pop culture—Roller Derby, board games, roadside points of interest—the Garage Sale is often disregarded. Some snub them for their lack of presentation, cringing at the jumbled, dusty, assemblage of miscellaneous merchandise. These same folks then turn around and pay much more for the same goods at swanky antique stores and emporiums. Garage Sales may be a bit humble; a good Garage Sailor may have to stumble and rummage through hazards an OSHA inspector would condemn. I offer, however, that an honest Garage Sale is free enterprise at its finest: frank person-to-person transactions without gimmicks, sales staff, taxes and red tape. The Garage Sale is the next best thing to a barter economy.

Some stigma stems from our disposable lifestyle. Our culture is ever-more inclined to “just junk it.” Instead of finding the intrinsic value, say, in a used egg carton, we tend to trash it. (Why not knit some together with yarn, a pie plate in the bottom, and make a trash can? Use that carton at Easter for a decorative egg container. Save an egg carton for your own garage sale to use as a change tray.) At best, if some object like an expensive brass elephant is no longer in vogue, people have a tendency to wrinkle their noses and relegate the goods to their own garage sale. Often such stuff stores up until it is overly burdensome, dirty and constantly in the way. Some people just can’t take it anymore and call a thrift store to haul it away. (These hapless souls, alas, are missing out on the social and economic dividends of hosting their own garage sale.) A lot of negativity builds up toward those piles of unwanted, yet valuable, goods. I would offer that these bad vibrations can carry over to one’s whole perspective on Garage Sales.

However, a novice can overcome such nose wrinkling and angst. I’ve now lost count of how many people I’ve taken out on a weekend only to behold the transformation. We’ll pull up with all the other poorly parked vehicles, size up the teeming mass of madness, and my guests will offer to sit this one out. I tell them an anecdote of some treasure I’ve found amongst the trash, coax them from the car, and lead the way. The first sale or two, they may not even touch the merchandise or make small talk with the sale’s host. They return to the car, digging for their sanitizing hand gel, shuddering. I’ll buy a little something like an old Life magazine, remarking on the amusing ads or the coverage of some dated fashion. An eyebrow raises.

A few stops later, maybe I find a complete 30 gallon aquarium setup for under $10. I recount a few purchases I’ve made, subtly pointing out the difference between retail and Garage Sale prices. Questions begin. The novice starts to notice the GAP clothing in mint condition, the toys of their childhood, the uniquely handcrafted chichi lampshade… Soon, gaining his legs, I find him picking through old albums and smiling at the memories they bring. The excitement begins with some rare find or great bargain. It is fueled by some creative quibbling I’ll do on his behalf to further beat down a price. I know when I’ve made a Sailor of someone when they start leaving me messages, asking when they can go again. Some will call with calendar updates on city-wide sales or up-coming auctions. Some will call me, on a given weekend, from their mobile phone, asking for directions as they seek to find some obscure address where a bargain might be waiting. A true convert can soon spot a good sale from the signage, the write up in the paper, the traffic at the sale.

I once broke in a newbie and hooked him so thoroughly we could not stop shopping. We trolled two city-wide Garage Sales and many individual sales. Altogether, I set a personal record of 45 drive-bys (not every Garage Sale is worth getting out for) and 47 actual stops. It took the rest of the weekend to retrieve all the stuff we bought that would not fit in or on my Suburban. His wife may not like me much, as she curses his knick-knackery, but he continues as an avid Garage Sailor to this day.

Fortunately for me, my wife is my navigator and crew, one of my earliest converts, and together we mount the high seas of low prices every weekend of the season.