goodbadi

I Used to Be a Dreamy Hippie

2012-02-11T17:41:00.001-05:00

I received this email today from a college friend:

You made an appearance in my dream this morning! You were wearing brown corduroys, and an orange t-shirt, walking calmly in your bare feet across campus, playing your guitar. I, meanwhile, was running frantically back and forth, to no apparent effect. It seems to me that that's sort of the way that it really was!

The Hole Thing

2012-02-05T07:43:00.004-05:00

Neither this photo nor simply looking at the hole conveys how large it really is, or at least how tired I am, but after about five hours of digging yesterday, the first couple with a friend helping, one little corner of the six-by-six-feet hole is only three inches shy of my six-feet-deep (below the joists) goal.

Once I've lugged the rest of the clay out and whittled back the sides, and framed it in, and replaced the floor joists and sub floor and flooring, and cut a trapdoor, we'll have a tidy little, shelf-lined root cellar directly below what will someday be our new kitchen.

I'm thrilled by this whole idea--a root cellar through a kitchen-floor trapdoor!--but if its novelty fails, I have a backup plan: Because our house is pre-Civil War, I can always try to pass off the submerged box as an Underground Railroad depot.

Somebody That I Used to Know

2012-01-27T20:30:00.001-05:00

Pre-Crawl Drive and A Minute-Forty-Two Minuet in H

2012-01-23T21:03:00.000-05:00

Wild Rides

2012-01-19T06:07:00.000-05:00

Just a couple little somethings to encourage me on my bicycling way this morning in the 17 degrees:

And a something marvelous:

'Eard

2012-01-05T06:13:00.002-05:00

Last week we celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary which was yesterday. I planned and kept the evening a secret from M right up to the last minute for each of its three stages: watching The Help, visiting a mall shop, and eating out.

The back story: A month or two ago M and I had a discussion about having midlife crises. I first said I'd probably buy a minivan for mine, but she told me I'd better not, so I said maybe instead I'd get my ears pierced. I forget what she said back, maybe, "Me, too," or maybe, "Whatever."

That's when I got the idea for the anniversary date, and when we picked up our daughters after our anniversary celebration, everyone oohed and aahed over M's newly pierced ears.

As for mine, N had this to say: "Only women look pretty with earrings, but not men."

First Food

2012-01-03T05:43:00.001-05:00

Thrift

2012-01-02T07:16:00.000-05:00

A local, church-based thrift store is called "Blessings and Treasures." I guess sometimes there's a discrepancy between the two.

Caught

2012-01-02T06:12:00.001-05:00

Very

2011-12-27T06:29:00.004-05:00

Caroling

2011-12-27T06:28:00.000-05:00

She doesn't sing on command or for the camera, and she didn't sing when we caroled for our neighbors, but I was able to sneak (or not sneak) some peaks:

4

2011-12-27T06:23:00.002-05:00

A week ago N said something like, "Remember a long time ago when Christmas seemed so far away? And now it's only five days away!"

While Christmas caroling for the neighbors and visiting a local church's live enactment of Bethlehem and the nativity induced a turning inward for N (I think she was absorbed in observing her feelings in those moments), her fourth birthday celebration was another matter: she was elated from start all the way until her fiery finish.

As our church had moved our Sunday service to Christmas Eve, we had the whole day to celebrate:

The paper doll book from her grandparents occupied her for hours:

She already has used quite a few of the thank-you card kit cards:

She continues to thrill in the gifted hand-me-down underwear from her cousin, but the hair band was an immediate rush:

We packed a picnic for a hike in the mountains, something she's been wanting to do for a while (except she wants snow at the same time):

More paper doll play:

And the cake:

To Pass Over

2011-12-17T22:48:00.003-05:00

In my denomination's recent history, communion has sometimes been somewhat ominous; I've heard stories about how church members were required to appear individually in a closed room before the elders for spiritual examination before being allowed to take the meal. People "unsaved" or with unresolved sinfulness were not welcome to partake of the juice and bread, since taking it without the proper preparation, seriousness, or faith credentials merited weighty divine paybacks.

This strictness is changing: I have never been examined, and in most churches I've visited the only communion caveat is to partake only "if things are right between you and God and everyone else." Unbaptized kids are often welcome, too, although they might be handed grapes rather than the wine or juice. I've appreciated this liberalization of boundaries.

However, these more loose communion practices, like traditional ceremonies, often are framed as part of remembering the Passover. It was at the observance of that Jewish holiday that Jesus served that first communion, and we have concluded that "do this in remembrance of me" means to continue coupling the two. This unfortunately only furthers the accentuation that God chooses sides, in the Exodus story's case the side of the Israelite slaves, on whose behalf the Egyptians' firstborn people and animals were killed.

Now, the Passover story is part of all that is hugely relevant to the history of the Jewish people, to any underdog movement needing inspiration, and to anyone who wants to understand Western literature. However, it is, like many other Old Testament stories, mostly relevant to non-Jewish, contemporary Christians because it informed the context into which Jesus was (to some, so rudely) plopped and, in this case, which he confronted--by voiding litmus tests for joining with the religious "in" crowd. Did not Jesus himself serve communion to--of all people!--Judas Iscariot and Peter? In short, Jesus so threatened (in part by eating with questionable characters) the religiously right's self-righteous boundaries that he was arrested--and during the very celebration of Israel's chosen status, at that.

I appreciate and believe that, as the Exodus story suggests, God does care about (and maybe even side with) the downtrodden. Jesus did, too, after all (and so does the Statue of Liberty). That's scary, as I'm not particularly downtrodden, which means I'm probably downtrodding. Even scarier is Jesus' declaration of who really is "in": “Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them. Anyone who does not love me will not obey my teaching."

Jesus blurred Pharisaical "saved" versus "unsaved" dichotomies by eating with many different stripes of sinners, even at his last supper. This effectively frees communion from excluding or delineating schemes that deny bread and wine to people just as eligible as anyone for becoming the everyday body and blood of Christ.

Instead of continuing to tie communion observance to the story of the Passover and framing it as a special ceremony reserved for a special "in" crowd, perhaps the world would be better served if communionists celebrated, as holy communion, the meal that Jesus took with Zacchaeus, where the only prerequisite to pulling up a chair was interest and the outcome of joining in was change for the better.

Maybe Right, Maybe Wrong: Classic goodbadi

2011-12-11T15:19:00.005-05:00

Several years ago, when M was four months pregnant with N, we went on a month-long road trip. A highlight was the day M's sister took us climbing in Yosemite. I'd never been on a rock face before, and I was thrilled and terrified for pretty much the whole time. At the end of the day I was exhausted, proud to have met even such an amateur challenge, certain I would never attempt anything of the like again, and hungry.

M's sister knew just the ticket for such an evening: burgers from The Forks. I've since tried to replicate the burger; the only trick I've found to bring my productions close is toasting--as in buttering and skillet frying--bread slices for buns.

Along with the fun--if frightening--memories of that day, I remember that as we walked into The Forks, we passed four rough-looking motorcyclists standing outside. The restaurant was busy, so we waited patiently at the door for a table.

But as one opened up and the waitress headed in our direction, the motorcyclists entered and stepped ahead of us.

"Four," the man intercepted the waitress, not looking at us.

Now, maybe they'd been inside already and then went outside to wait and so really were next in line, but the waitress looked uncertain, as though she, too, thought we were next--and seated them.

For many years, now, I've been wondering how I could have turned the situation to make me feel less squashed. Should I have insisted on paying for the bikers' dinner? Should I have started a chair-throwing row? Neither would have been worth my trouble, perhaps, but I still haven't figured out the name of the feeling that in me lingers still--and resurfaced yet again just the other night.

Last Friday, at the last minute, M and I decided to drive nearly an hour down the highway to see a professional production of "A Christmas Carol" on its last "pay what you will" night. Getting their early was of utmost importance, since we'd heard that lines form even a hour and a half before starting time, so we speedily ate supper, speedily got the girls ready to go to their cousins', speedily waited for H to finish nursing, speedily went on our way, speedily parked in the parking garage, and, seeing other people in the garage also heading in the same direction, speedily sped towards the walkway from the garage to the theater.

"Excuse me," from behind us we heard calling a silvery blond woman in a light blue sweater accompanied several other people. "Is this the way to the theater?"

"We think so," we called back. "We're new, too." And off we sped.

From the end of the walkway we had to pass the front of the lengthening line on our way to the back; we quickly found our places and stood shivering.

The blue sweater group, however, paused to talk with their friends who were in line ahead of us.

My annoyance probably showed on my dear face.

"It's okay if they jump in here with us, isn't it?" one of the friends asked us with a smile that matched her sleek leather jacket, impeccably straight, black hair, and everything else about her that said she was in control, always gets what she wants, and didn't give a rip about anyone who might or might not care to disagree.

It was already settled, apparently, so we just sort of stood there, not sure what we mumbled in return.

I decided then and there that henceforth I would always say what I thought, like "Not really," but the moment for doing so just then had already passed, so instead I complained to M about how rude some people are and looked across the street to look for shadows on the glowing window shades of an historic apartment building.

Finally the lobby doors opened and that group went to the left while we headed right; I hoped never again to cross paths with those annoying people.

When the theater doors opened, we grabbed the first seats we could find. Actually it was one seat, and it was behind a balcony support that blocked center stage, but it seemed wide enough for two. It would do; the "pay what you will" throng had to make do with the limited unreserved seats, which appeared to be few compared to the sea of seats with "reserved" placards.

With the show still twenty or thirty minutes from starting, I decided to go to the bathroom. On my way, as I walked along a bench row still empty but apparently wholly reserved, I happened upon two empty, unmarked places. They were really good seats; I couldn't see any others to me more preferable, except maybe for those on stage.

"Are these reserved?" I asked the woman seated in the next spot.

"They were, but not anymore," she said.

I forgot about going to the bathroom, but I wasn't sure what to do. M was only thirty feet away, but she hadn't seen me station myself in front of the new seats. Should I go back and get her and maybe lose the seats, or should I ask someone nearby to keep them for me?

I looked around. There, already seated in the rows behind the newly discovered seats, were the lady in the blue sweater and her friends. Her Leatherfied Smile was still smiling and looking in my direction. And just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blue sweater lady slip her purse over the back the very seat I was standing in front of and in the process of claiming.

That did it. Pretending not to be aware of the purse or the people around me, I sat down on the edge of the seat now holding the purse, and rested my arm on the adjacent empty seat.

Behind me I heard the woman who had told me the seats were unreserved politely say to the purse owner, "His wife and he are going to sit there." I felt the purse being quietly pulled away, and leaned back.

Eventually M saw me and came to the new seats, and we watched the delicious show.

Pig Me

2011-12-07T12:16:00.002-05:00

I anticipate feeling short on cash and craving a financial windfall, once our projects fund bleeds the rest of itself away and the new kitchen has to sit on its duff until our savings account again blossoms, which often is slow to happen because we prioritize being at home over excessive work opportunities.

These PSAs shown on the news channel students sometimes watch at school help me keep my pining in humorous check:

But these things do sometimes happen:

Driving in Circles

2011-12-06T21:33:00.004-05:00

The Economist noted recently that increased American vehicle fuel efficiency and less driving is leaving highways without fuel-tax-generated funding, thereby preventing roadways from being improved.

And things do need untroubling. As the article states, “The American Society of Civil Engineers estimated in 2009 that 36% of America’s major urban highways are congested, costing $78.2 billion each year in wasted time and fuel costs.”

But oh, what good news! The silver lining to road unimprovement is that the fuel purchased for wasting in urban highway congestion will fund infrastructure betterment that will, in the long run....oh, shucks, never mind.

Snap

2011-12-06T21:02:00.007-05:00

N has been waking up in the middle of the night and calling for me to take her to the bathroom. Often she walks in a sleepy fog to the toilet and sits there for a long time, with me nearby fretting that she’ll fall back to sleep and fall off.

She has over the last couple months learned to snap her fingers, and she’s eager to show off her new skill as well as to use it nonchalantly and at random moments--like while conversing at the dinner table or even when she’s returning to her bedroom in the middle of the night, in her stupor. Last night she just reached that little wrist out, snapped her fingers, turned through her bedroom door, and stumbled into bed.

Winter is coming, of course, making those bathroom trips shivery. But the still-warm days of our season entice flies out of hiding for last forays before winter immobilizes them; I find them when their reticence to return to their hideaways before the cool of night leaves them slowed to a measly grog and they sit dumbfounded until I pick them up only to flush them away forever, I hope.

As the nights trend toward even colder cold, the mice outside are seeking warmer quarters in our scrabbling walls. Eleven mice have bit the cheesy dust already this fall; the first eight were snapped away in the first 48 hours of my eradication campaign.

I even caught one at someone else’s house one afternoon over Thanksgiving. I kept glimpsing movement and then saw it for real, so I grabbed a toy net from the closet and with some help herded it into the blue plastic. I felt rather heroic, like a mighty hunter.

At home, though, my technique is less exciting. In general accordance with expert marketers’ directions, I securely lace old-fashioned wooden traps with small bits of cheese, then place them at key locations where I’ve seen traffic signs in our attic and basement.

I’m no expert, though, at setting the traps. I still get all shaky and clumsy when I place them, which sometimes trips them, which startles me to no end, which means I’m even more shaky when I try again.

But it’s becoming more of a snap all the time.

Anatomy of a Tantrum

2011-12-05T13:24:00.001-05:00

Hmmm. Not bad ideas, I suppose. Worth...testing, anyway, since they're scientific and all.

In the meantime, three screams for NPR!

Off Center

2011-12-04T21:04:00.002-05:00

After church this morning, standing around talking with people, I realized I was at the focal point of a half-circle of people.

"How neat!" I thought. "People like me, and want to talk to me and hear what I have to say!"

Only later did I realize that at the time I'd been holding H.

A sampling of Her Cuteness, and the cuteness of her older sister, who maybe feels sometimes like I do:

Feel Good, Tear-Jerking Cliche

2011-12-04T20:48:00.003-05:00

I confess, I got a little teary when I watched this the first several times (my student teacher used it in classes):

Actually, it even made me miss Michael Jackson, a little, so after the girls went to bed, M and I watched a few of his music videos. It was quite an education for us, as neither of us had paid him much heed before.

We still don't, really, but this video, at least, has a high coolness factor (especially the very beginning):

Delightful Disappointment

2011-11-30T14:29:00.002-05:00

Following are select comments from a few of the 149 (of 909 total) reviewers who didn’t like the baby monitor I was thinking about buying on amazon.com but now won't. It seems that the device’s signal-out-of-range beep feature is a mite overeager:

My heart harbors a burning inferno of hatred for this device. I want it destroyed, burnt, reassembled, repaired, refurbished, and then destroyed and burnt again, just to satisfy my hatred for it.
Just buy an alarm clock and never turn it off. If you are expecting a baby, go ahead and plug this piece of junk in to give you practice waking up throughout the night.
It worked for 7 months, though at 6 months I had to unplug the battery, unplug the receiver and hop on one foot while chanting to the rain gods to make it work again. I don't think I did the chant right at the 7 month time frame and now when I turn it on it is a series of 345,453,323,123 beeps. Though for awhile we used it as part of our techno beats dance party, the tune soon wore thin and now it sits. Mocking me from my coffee table.
It doesn't matter what channel you choose, you'll have to endure a constant static "coughing" that will drive you straight into the feral clutches of madness. Save yourself. Save your sanity.
Our other son had a monitor that wasn't available where we purchased this one (we moved recently) and we love that one. The range is amazing! 200+ ft. (I took our trash to the dumpster and I was still able to hear my mother and wife talking in it).

M Sings Handel

2011-11-28T06:32:00.003-05:00

I recorded a practice session of M singing and her sister H playing piano; they were preparing for the Sunday morning offertory at their parents' church:

Two Little Cousins

2011-11-28T06:04:00.000-05:00

Protest

2011-11-21T21:19:00.005-05:00

Notable to me in the eight-minutes-plus flick (below) of the pepper spray incident at UC Davis was the protesters’ restraint in the face of the campus police force’s shameful and cruel use of the spray. It wasn’t clear to me why those police--at least one of whom appeared relaxed and even cheerful--had to move those sitting students; a few of the sprayed students stumbled away while others stayed put and were arrested and the camera-happy crowd around them chanted to the police, “Shame on you!” Eventually the police rallied to themselves and slowly retreated to the victorious cheers of the students.

At first viewing I felt largely unsympathetic to the protesters, whose victory shouts of “it’s our campus” seemed largely irrelevant. Even without that silly framing of the “victory,” what did they think could possibly be gained by sitting in a street in the name of some vague Occupy Wall Street goal that, however magnificent, so quickly proved to be derailable into an--albeit admirably nonviolent, on the protesters' part--mere push and shove contest with campus police who have no more say about “perceived economic inequality” than the protesters themselves?

In short, it seemed to me a rather trivial and somewhat pointless imitation by spoiled rich kids of the so-called Arab Spring in which protesters risk their lives to confront the powers of oppression, or even of the movement against the School of the Americas in which students don’t risk their lives but still bring their protests to the doorstep of their anticause.

At another glance, however, I had second thoughts about writing off the UC Davis protesters. At minimum, it is a valid and, for our society as a whole, relevant question that a protester shouted at the police: “Who do you protect?” The police are, after all, the front line of societal (mis)priorities; they reveal where the government’s heavy hand drops. To stand up to the police is perhaps the most accessible point against which people can stand up to object to the injustices of our economic system.

At UC Davis, the pepper spraying itself led to an even more remarkable and restrained protest, later on, when the chancellor of the university--there have been calls for her to leave her post--was given a “silent walk of shame” to her car:

Fat and Skinny Mashed Potatoes

2011-11-21T21:08:00.002-05:00

Yesterday our church canceled the morning service and instead hosted an evening Thanksgiving feast preceded by a pinata for the kids and a hymn sing for everyone.

When we tallied up the numbers a week ago, we figured about sixty people would attend--and so prepping food for seventy seemed reasonable. Considering our bumper potato crop, M and I offered to bring mashed potatoes to go along with the gravy, ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, cranberry salad, pies, and hot tea and coffee also on the menu.

Saturday we scrubbed three quarters of a bushel of potatoes (someone had told us that half a bushel would feed around forty people), and Sunday morning I crammed them into our four largest cooking pots for boiling, and then mixed them, peels and all, with what sounds to me like a piddling two pounds of butter, lots of salt, and a gallon and a half of milk. We smashed them into waiting crock pots in our new kitchen, with the overflow two-thirds filling the smaller of our biggest kettles keeping warm on our current kitchen stove.

The feast was a tremendous success, lavish, delicious and festive. M had spearheaded the decorations, and all was autumnal and warm; she also led the hymn sing most elegantly.

And she helped me cart home the one empty, the one nearly empty, and the two filled crock pots--and the still untouched big kettle.

Check out who is at the back of this beginning of the line--our western landowner neighbor and her husband:

Early Versions

2011-11-11T17:30:00.000-05:00

An original joke by N:
Why did the pig cross the house? He wanted to climb the branch.

Piano arrangement:

Peeling Garlic

2011-11-11T06:05:00.002-05:00

Thanks, No Thanks, Thanksgiving

2011-11-11T05:50:00.000-05:00

Long ago, after we sent a letter to our western neighbor saying that we planned to install our own water supply system and therefore remove the electric line that comes from our house and powers her barn along with the pump we share, the nice man from the electric company told me that our western neighbor would be happy to pay us twenty dollars per month--the minimum charge if she had her own hookup--for continued access to our electricity.

Up unto that point--forever, I suppose--she had just used it for free; I contacted her and arranged that she would start paying us. And she did pay us, for four months at a time, albeit almost always about a month late and sometimes with a check written in pencil, for well over a year.

Back in August, though, in a rush of wanting to build a spirit of goodwill with my neighbors, I called up the western neighbor and suggested that she cut that twenty dollars in half.

"Oh, whatever," she said. "I just do whatever people tell me, anymore."

"Well, if you want to lower it to ten dollars starting in September, that's fine with us. You're not using twenty dollars’ worth, I don't think."

"Well alright," she said, and then she said something she'd never before said to me: "Thank you."

(If that didn't make me giddy enough, I immediately called the eastern land renter and offered that he make hay from our little field since I was going to have to pay someone to cut the grass, anyway. He said he wasn't going to be bringing his equipment over anymore this fall, but--another new experience here--"thank you.")

Well.

As September came and went and no check arrived from the western neighbor, I started to fret. As October, too, sneaked by, I considered our options. It wouldn't do to call her and remind her that she hadn't paid; simply because I would be asking her to do something, I was pretty sure that, as a matter of principle, she wouldn’t respond by sending a check. And I didn't feel like spending our windows money on actually separating the power supply and water setups, so that wouldn't work.

Then, like any good, divinely inspired institution should, our church came to the rescue--by deciding to host a Thanksgiving feast and invite friends and acquaintances.

Guess who received one of the invitations.

Guess who put that check in the mail lickety-split.

And guess who feels much better.

Music

2011-11-08T05:42:00.002-05:00

"Over My Head"

"The Gospel in a Word"

Snowy View

2011-10-30T21:33:00.001-04:00

The snow storm stole our electricity partway through the afternoon Saturday, so we didn't finish putting in the windows. But the big one on the south end, above where the kitchen sink will be, is making me want to just work my butt off until the whole kitchen is finished:

Other wintry highlights:

My Teaching Stories Have Moved

2011-10-27T06:32:00.002-04:00

Mom says one day my stories about teaching will be a novel, but that the along-the-way blog readership is good impetus to write. She's right, of course, at least about the impetus. I love having my writing read.

However, I have moved my teaching stories to a new, private blog where I will continue to write about teaching. If you would like access to the new blog, please email me.

This blog will continue to be my otherwise-all-me clearing house.

Please note: Because of its privacy settings, my new blog won't send feed updates when I've posted. I'll keep a running list of new post titles on the top left of goodbadi so that readers can see when to visit the new blog.

Dear Auntie P

2011-10-27T05:33:00.001-04:00

"The dress is absolutely gorgeous," H told us when she finally stopped crying after we put it on her last evening. "I can't wait until next summer just so I can wear it even more!"

General Good Cheer

2011-10-24T20:46:00.003-04:00

On NPR's Talk of the Nation last week I heard Dan Buettner talking about happiness. According to him, I'm over halfway as happy as possible in relation to my income, my (lack of a) commute is better than a much higher salary, and I really do want to move to Denmark to pay exorbitant taxes.

I also made up a joke during my classes' study of homophones: Last week I met a cannibalistic butcher. He said to me, "Nice to meat you."

But best of all, last week I watched this TED video about smiling:

The New Kitchen

2011-10-24T06:39:00.003-04:00

I'd forgotten to hope to find a bag full of $100 bills stashed in the walls until after I'd already taken all the insulation out and then happened to look behind a baseboard heater, where this was hiding:

Oh well. Anyway, the room used to look like this, until Dad and I gutted it Friday night:

No wood stove, no hearth, no drywall, no insulation. Introducing our new kitchen:

Dad and my brother-in-law and I worked all day Saturday, too. These windows came out and will be replaced by three smaller windows spaced along the east wall:

The new, south-facing window frame above the kitchen sink:

The west wall's window frame and new, wider door:

When we were finished, I pulled a load of trash across town to the landfill--1,480 pounds. This picture shows the trailer still not filled to capacity:

Modern, ripped-out-door-frame art:

Everyday Fun

2011-10-20T16:59:00.000-04:00

Jonah's Rant

2011-10-18T21:18:00.001-04:00

I've referenced Matthew 18:21-35 on this blog not terribly long ago; as I said in church this week when we studied this Parable of the Unmerciful Servant, it doesn't feel good to be on the wrong side of a Bible story.

Anyway, as preparation for Sunday's service I wrote this as a summary of Jonah, which we studied along with the Matthew passage:

I have a burning, righteous sense of indignation about what God is doing here. I mean, I come here with what he told me was a pertinent message: Serious extermination, folks, in forty days! Look out, Ninevah!

I almost didn’t come. I tried not to, anyway. God said, “Go to Ninevah,” so I left in the other direction. Ended up telling the ship crew to throw me overboard. Ended up being swallowed by a fish. I always hated playing sharks and minnows when I was a kid, and here I was, in some serious bile.

Told God that while other people worship worthless idols, I shout grateful praise, even from inside the belly.

Ended up as fish vomit on a sandy beach somewhere, slimy and good for nothing but doing what God told me to do.

So I went to Ninevah, preached hellfire and brimstone. Smelled like undercooked fish. Wore out my sandals. Sat down outside the city to watch the destruction.

And you know what? That king that I’d condemned told everyone in that blasted city to repent, to end their evil and violent ways--and maybe God wouldn’t destroy them.

And they stopped being so bad, and God said, “Okay, no destruction for ya’ll.”

‘No destruction for ya’ll’? When did God turn all friendly like? I hadn’t known there was a ‘grace and compassion’ clause in my deal with God! No way, man--that’s not what I came for. I came to say down with you downers.

I’ve had enough of this rubbish. Repentance! Huh. I didn’t put up with no fish bile for this kind of slobber. I’m just going to sit here and die. After all, I’ve wasted my time--I should never have left home. Abounding love and mercy--surely God could have come up with that on his own without bothering me. Fish bile!

And I’m right to be furious, too. And I have a right to this here nice bush that just grew up over me and my shed last night to keep me out of the sun and give me comfort.

But whew! That’s a mean east wind. Hey, where’s my tree going? Hey! Where was that tree-eating son of a worm when I could’ve used some substitute fish bait? This is really fishy. I wish I was dead.

And yes, I’m right to be angry, even if I didn’t grow this withered plant. What was God thinking? Mercy and grace and forgiveness--and for those losers, who can’t tell their left and right hands apart? Losers! And their pets! Bah, humbug.

Any big fish in that town? I’ve got a worm for them to share.

Chill

2011-10-16T20:53:00.001-04:00

Fall is in the air, and with it comes a sense of letting things be, dressing for the cold, my sister's family's donut party, and baring trees:

Virtual Choir: Sleep

2011-10-15T07:36:00.002-04:00

This talk on TED by Eric Whitacre gives context to this beautiful video:

Potato Ham

2011-10-09T21:38:00.002-04:00

Big Sisters

2011-10-05T07:14:00.002-04:00

Rattle and Roll

2011-10-05T07:11:00.000-04:00

Fuzz Buzz

2011-10-05T06:54:00.003-04:00

Run-ins with unexpected or, better yet, unnoticed authority tickle me pink.

My favorite part of The King's Speech is when Lionel's wife comes home early from her bridge party and is completely surprised to find the king and queen there with her husband; Michelle Obama's recent undercover shopping trip to Target gave me a feeling of residual specialness when M bought me a sleek jacket there the other day; a recurring fantasy of mine is that I am suddenly revealed to the people around me (especially those who find me dull) as an undercover officer of the law when I execute a high profile arrest right in front of them.

I've had a close encounter with the latter sort of power trip. For a criminal justice college course I had to go on a police ride along for six or eight hours one Friday night. We made one traffic stop (the driver turned out to be undocumented, unlicensed and unable to speak English and, it turned out, under 18, which meant that the handcuffing he was subjected to when he was taken to the jail was illegal, which worried the officer quite a bit), responded to a number of noise violation calls (the parties had always dissipated before our arrival), checked on Lowe's (their alarm had gone off), and cruised through my little religious university at about two o'clock in the morning.

On top of the campus hill, the officer pointed to all the cars parked around the chapel. "What's this about?" she demanded.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know of anything taking place."

"Let's check it out." She parked the car and, crouched over, ran to the building and peered in the windows. Of course I followed--and then remembered that it the event was an "all-night party for God."

Back in the cruiser we drove through the nearby quiet neighborhood of fine homes, one of which, the officer noticed, had lights still on.

"Maybe something's wrong," she said, pulling over to the curb. "Why don't you go check it out?"

I reached for the car door handle. "Wha--Are you serious?"

She laughed at me and we drove on.

We stopped at a convenience store. "Law enforcement gets free drinks," she said; maybe her raised eyebrows when I stepped up to pay for mine meant that I didn't have to, either, but I figured I'd rather be safe than sorry.

Back to Lowe's we went for another false alarm; in the parking lot we met up with another cruiser.

"Doughnuts?" the officer driving the other car asked. "7-11 was throwing them out." He handed across a bag full. I could hardly keep from laughing out loud: I was eating doughnuts with the police.

And then we got a call to file a report at the hospital. At a stoplight someone had come up to a car of young men and smashed a bottle over one of their heads. The officer interviewed them and filled out her paperwork while I looked on. As we left, the men thanked the officer, and then turned and thanked me, too.

As far as they were concerned, I realized, I was a plainclothesman. I nodded and grimaced a sober, undisclosing smile.

So I'm not above getting a thrill out of imagining myself as un-noticeably important (even though my daydreams almost always involve my authority's being noticed).

Take yesterday, for example.

Last week the convenience store across the street announced to teachers that on school days we get free coffee if we bring our school ID and own coffee cup. Yesterday I stopped for some decaf with French vanilla creamer--and a bit of hazelnut regular, too, to give me a little boost.

I filled my cup, screwed on the lid, and as I walked past the checkout line where people were waiting their turns to pay, I reached into my new black jacket and flashed my badge at the cashier. She gave a little wave, and off I went.

It could've been merely water in my mug, after that; I didn't need the caffeine.

Fail

2011-10-01T22:09:00.003-04:00

It was a good speech, even if it was the wrong one.

This week my school showed all our students Obama's speech about No Child Left Behind flexibility when it meant to air his third annual back-to-school speech.

I can't say I minded too much, especially considering that in the NCLB speech Obama highlighted the sorts of problems that make President Bush's education baby a "race to the bottom": all that states have to do in order to be labeled successful is lower their standards.

Indeed, under NCLB, states that don't lower their standards are labeled as failures: in nationally highly ranked Massachusetts, a school ranked in the state's top quarter and from which every graduate last year went to college was labeled "failing" under NCLB, I suspect because it did not make "adequate yearly progress." This was the problem my school had last year; when you're already good, it's really hard to improve.

What I certainly will mind, however, is if Obama's replacement "reform" will push equally hard or harder for accountability through one-size-fits-all assessments that inevitably leads to "teaching to the test."

Maybe I'll vote for Bachmann next year, since she'll get rid of the Department of Education.

NPR Rap Gem

2011-10-01T21:57:00.001-04:00

Empty Tape Roll and Bubble Wrap

2011-09-25T22:08:00.000-04:00

Maybe Mediocre and Loving Life Anyway

2011-09-24T21:44:00.001-04:00

A while back there was this delightful comic, and then there was this delightful Fresh Air interview that my mom told me about:

I feel so affirmed!

And by the way, my band has a gig in the works for which the venue is confidently charging admission. This is new and strange for us. You mean there's a contract we sign? Our website will announce details as things are sured up.

Just Doing What She Does

2011-09-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

Audacity

2011-09-22T22:26:00.000-04:00

That Kind of Day

2011-09-12T20:25:00.001-04:00

At my job I almost always have a full planning period or at least a lunch break during which I can write my usual weekday letter to M who, on the other hand, usually has barely a minute's wiggle room.

Today she took H for her first immunizations and generally tried to keep her and N on an even keel, and throughout the day found time to write me this note:

Hangin' with the New Cuz

2011-09-11T21:29:00.001-04:00

The Official Fix

2011-09-11T21:23:00.001-04:00

The Girls

2011-09-10T07:56:00.000-04:00

The World Asked

2011-09-10T07:55:00.003-04:00

So I told it:

Conversationalist

2011-09-09T05:45:00.002-04:00

Studious Teacher

2011-09-06T21:55:00.000-04:00

Bubbles

2011-09-04T16:48:00.003-04:00

Right.

2011-08-31T06:17:00.003-04:00

I forgive the sneaky obvious in our 34-ounce dish detergent bottle's slick boast only because it sells itself short by one and two-thirds percentage points:

No Bull Pig Rush

2011-08-30T15:37:00.001-04:00

Sunday afternoon when we arrived home from church, I noticed a new member of the neighboring barnyard: a hefty Angus bull.

This was a bit worrisome for me, since, as I'd been suspicious that the farm renter had jacked up the current on the electric fences to a dangerous level, I had just that morning used a tester to measure the voltage and discovered that the fence was not shocking at all, leaving our property's barnyard boundary permeable.

I again tested the fence and even tried to register a snap with a direct ground, but no dice. I called and left a message for the farmer that, there being no electricity in the fence, I was nervous about the bull.

The next morning when I opened our gate to pedal down our driveway and off to school, I noticed that the bull was no longer in the barnyard. Then I saw it placidly grazing in our driveway.

As I'm not very familiar with cattle, I quickly shut myself back inside our gate and called the farm renter.

“I don’t have a bull down there,” he said.

I called the landowner. She didn’t know whose it was, either, but said she’d call the farmer who grazes his herd across the road.

I bumped along down through the field on the other side of our house to the road and made my way to school, where maybe it was the stress of the bull situation or because it was Monday or maybe it’s just how I am that made me swing by the faculty lounge during my planning period to grab an ice cream sandwich from the stash left over from last week’s faculty meeting.

It was delicious.

At the afternoon’s faculty meeting, then, when ice cream treats were served, I felt ravenous again. Just one more sandwich was simply not enough, plus there was untested variety, so I had an Orangesicle, too. And then--What do you know!--after the meeting I realized I hadn’t even sampled the brand of sandwich that I’d contributed to the snack time, and so, well, I had another.

Perhaps it was the pouring rain, or maybe it was the sugar in my veins; I don’t think I ever pedaled quite so vigorously all the way home, and once there I gobbled chili, pepper and tomato slices, toast, and apple chunks--and didn’t even miss the ice cream dessert M decided not to serve--and learned that the farm renter whose bull it wasn’t sent his son to pen it up until the animal’s owner retrieved it.

In the Black: The Story of a Date

2011-08-20T19:24:00.001-04:00

For a date the other week, M and I dropped off N for a kiddie pool party and headed to Kohl's for some clothes shopping.

"Would you do this for me?" a sales lady met us at the door with a store charge card application. "It helps us with vacations and--my, what a pretty baby--and salaries, and saves you on purchases and...." She rambled on and asked a couple more times if we'd do it just for her before I had the presence of mind to say, "We'll see what we want to buy today and then decide." One piece of clothing purchase later, we walked away charge free.

We headed straight to a consignment shop for kids' clothing. Somewhere we'd been given a couple gorgeous pieces of elegant clothing that N never wore and we guessed H never would, either.

"If they offer less than $20 for them, let's think about it," I told M. "I bet this stuff would sell nicely on eBay."

"It may be half an hour until we can look at your stuff," the lady said. "We'll call you when it's ready."

We strolled over to the grocery store, bought a four-pack of Izzy, and sat on the bench by the soda machines out front to pass the while. There's nothing quite like warm soda to make a terrific date, so even before the store called, we stopped back in.

"It might be a while," the lady said. "Maybe an hour?"

We left for carry-out pizza, which cooled in the back seat while M nursed H and my stomach growled, then drove to a nearby arboretum to eat in the pleasant shade and converse as only married couples on dates can.

When we returned to the consignment shop, we learned that none of the items we'd brought were of interest to them--too unique, or dated, or something like that.

I was indignant. Such elegant clothing, unwanted by people with more-informed taste than ours?

I would show them. "eBay," I thought, "Here I come....hmmm...eight dollars should cover shipping...start the bidding at ninety-nine cents...here are some sloppy photos....okay, done. Let the bidding begin!"

Both items sold...for ninety-nine cents. "Oh crap," I thought. "I wonder how much shipping's going to be."

$14.10, including the free packaging I arranged using bagel or bread bags and paper sacks the grocery store uses to send home ice cream boxes but excluding the calories I burned pedaling over to the post office after school one day.

"And I wonder how much eBay and PayPal will take."

$2.65.

Which left us at least in the black, if only with $1.38.

Merry Christmas!

2011-08-14T22:30:00.001-04:00

Dog Treat

2011-08-09T19:05:00.004-04:00

Rats!

2011-08-03T17:15:00.001-04:00

Well, not literally, other than the one yesterday that our cat chased out of the tree right beside our back deck into the menacing jaws of our lovely dog, who is apparently intent on losing her piz wat status.

Nope, I just mean that exclamatorily, as for the first time I have had eBay auctions removed for "copyright violation." It appears that I can't legally sell the language-learning software I purchased dirt cheap from the maker of the software a decade ago (when I worked for the company), which is a bummer because I have level I (and some level II) editions for sixteen different languages just sitting in my closet.

Barking Fox

2011-08-02T11:26:00.000-04:00

We've heard them barking before, lots of times, but while we figured they were foxes, we were never quite sure.

Last night one sounded like it was just outside our window. I grabbed my trusty bludgeon...er, flashlight...and tried to shine it through the screen. All I could see were glowing eyes, so a bit later, when the sounds persisted, I sneaked down to the computer desk for my glasses and then out the back door.

After the eyes ran to just outside a far corner of our property and then back up to their original sounding place above our fence line, I was finally able to see the barking animal. But in the shadowing light I still couldn't tell what it was, so this morning after I put new batteries in my flashlight, I sat down at the computer and found exactly the sound:

Perfection

2011-08-01T15:29:00.000-04:00

While I am very much a perfectionist, I am too lazy to strive for impeccability.

My shed, for example, is rife with avoidable, naked-eye horrors, and so are my gardening and food-preserving procedures, and everything else I do. You should see the trim I installed over the weekend (and the associated ruination of adjacent walls and trim).

Only a few of the undesirabilities in that which I do can I blame on circumstance, since most of the time I am at least partly responsible for how life plays out; I neither accept my own ineptitude as a fair excuse nor condone my impatience, both of which are prevalent worries.

As a perfectionist, I am not blind to the myriad blemishes; I spot them every time I'm around them. Only the other things I'd rather be doing keep me from trying to work out their collective salvation.

By All Appearances, Serious

2011-08-01T15:06:00.000-04:00

Mmmm Peach

2011-07-30T07:47:00.003-04:00

At this point I should recount that Thursday night during dinner, which our friends had brought and were enjoying with us, N started really searching for something in her nose. M quickly figured out that a pea had found its way in, and I took N to the bathroom. It was a simple removal, and N happily ate the pea.

This summer N became an expert at making salads. Often without guidance, let alone permission, she would take some salad greens to the kitchen, get out the mayonnaise and Dijon mustard, and come up with a tasty mess. Yesterday, helped only with peeling the hard-boiled eggs and final stirring, she made dill-seasoned egg salad for our lunch:

Enough Already

2011-07-28T15:53:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I listened to NPR's Talk of the Nation and learned about the famine in Somalia while I (almost single-handedly) picked, processed and froze twenty-six quarts of sweet corn.

I'd put away over seven quarts on Monday, so in two days we stocked up for the year. And we still have rows and rows of corn to pick!

Blasphemy, Anyone?

2011-07-27T23:18:00.002-04:00

H's Birth: Happy Albeit Self Funded

2011-07-24T19:10:00.017-04:00

We took on Goliath and lost--and had an exhilarating birth anyway.

We knew in advance that our insurance provider does not cover births not overseen by an obstetrician, choosing instead to pay only for currently predominant models of maternity care in spite of our nation's infant mortality rate global ranking of thirty-fourth. But earlier this year we began requesting preauthorization for reimbursement anyway. We followed the full appeals process (see our final letter below), hoping for the bureaucracy to mend its ways and help pay for H's birth:

The Birth Story

3:45pm, Sunday, July 10, 2011--M first wonders (to herself) if she feels contractions.
4:30--I decide to make up a curry supper, and we invite my parents (at JandJ's while on call) to join them. M advises me on how little cayenne powder to use.
6:00--The curry is not spicy and looks like dog vomit.
6:30--Before the light dessert, M says, “I have a confession to make. I’m having contractions.” SK says, “I just noticed that you’d gasped!” I let out a whoop: “It was the curry!” M says, “I have another confession to make. I’ve been having contractions for a couple hours already.” Historical note: My parents took us out for Indian food while M was in the early stages of labor with N; M and I hadn’t told them ahead of time that M was having contractions.
7:00-8:00--We give heads-up and later update calls to the midwife and M's sister H, and take showers. H says she’ll take a shower and come. While SK takes N to JandJ's for the night, I set up the music system in the bedroom (M had prepared soothing and energizing playlists for labor) and M alternates between tidying up the house and laboring on her hands and knees. PK washes the dishes before leaving to JandJ's.
8:00--M and I walk around the yard with the piz wat dog Canela, stopping frequently for contractions.
8:25--I call the midwife and tell her to come.
8:30--We take the birthing ball onto the back deck, where the breeze feels cool; I bring a family heirloom braided rug for under M’s knees.
8:45--M's sister H arrives. I tell her “it’s pretty intense.” At some point Bandida the cat brushes against the laboring M’s arm.
8:55--The midwife arrives after M has had four contractions that “feel like pushing.” Moments later, as the midwife is in the bathroom, M’s water breaks. The midwife rushes out, and says, “I’m fine with you having the baby out here, but if you’re not, then we’d better get you inside right now.” M says she’s fine here. Canela is cornered on the deck between the railing, M, the midwife, and the house, but is very calm. The midwife says she doesn’t mind the dog, who is standing very, very close to her.

9:03--The midwife announces that the baby has crowned; I get a good look at a very dusky face. M says, “Come out baby, I’m waiting for you,” and pushes twice more and out comes the baby. The midwife and I catch it and bring it up to M. It looks quite grey, so at first all focus is on stimulating the baby’s breathing. The baby’s cry becomes more vigorous, and I ask, “Are you a boy or a girl?” and check, and call her by name. Canela finally finds a way around the mess and off the deck.
9:25--SK and PK bring N home and wait in the driveway. The midwife’s apprentice arrives. Upon being introduced to the baby, N turns to me and says, “Look at my stickers!” N relays messages to PK and SK: “Daddy said it’s a baby!” When they asked if it was a boy or girl, she says, “We don’t know.” As for its name, she says, “We don’t know!” Later she tells M, “I’m so happy!” and as I talk her to sleep later, telling her about the birth, N asks, “Is it another baby? Are there two babies?”
9:45--The midwife's assistant arrives.
10:30--M takes a shower. Halfway through, the water shuts off. I run down to the barn to bleed the air out of the system so she can continue.
1:30--The midwife and her helpers leave, and the house quiets down for the night.

Throughout the post-birth events, M and I kept looking at each other and laughing with surprise: "You mean it's over already?"

The Letter of Appeal
from M to our health insurance non-provider:

I am writing to request a 2nd Level Appeal of your decision to deny preauthorization for the prenatal, birth and postpartum care services provided by _______, certified professional midwife (CPM), of __________ Birth Center. I have been receiving and paying for prenatal care since January 2011 with an anticipated delivery date in early July 2011.

While I understand that my policy states that it does not provide for the services I am requesting, the policy is based on prevailing conventions of medicalized birth and neglects to consider research-based, effective and healthy alternatives. It also creates a significant barrier to free, informed choice regarding optimum health care. Therefore I urge you to reconsider your denial of coverage of a certified professional midwife for my low-risk pregnancy care, in light of the following advantages:

N, early 2008

1. Lower cost: In 2008 the average payment for in-hospital vaginal delivery in the U.S. was $7,737 (Sakala and Corry). In 2010 a typical fee for OB/CNM prenatal care and vaginal delivery at my local hospital was $6,118. My certified professional midwife's fee of $2,900 (plus incidental expenses), which I am paying out of pocket prior to the birth, is substantially lower than the costs associated with an in-hospital birth. The American Public Health Association, “Recognizing that out-of-hospital settings have the potential for reducing the costs of maternity care ... urges public and private insurance plans to eliminate barriers to the reimbursement and equitable payment of direct-entry midwifery services in both public and private payment systems” (APHA).

H, 2011

2. Health and safety: Mortality rates for babies born out-of-hospital are statistically comparable to in-hospital births. A 2005 study states, “Planned home birth for low risk women in North America using certified professional midwives was associated with lower rates of medical intervention but similar intrapartum and neonatal mortality to that of low risk hospital births in the United States” (Johnson and Daviss). The American Public Health Association supports “increased access to midwifery services,” and “efforts to increase access to out-of-hospital maternity services … through recognition that legally-regulated and nationally certified direct-entry midwives can serve clients desiring safe, planned, out-of-hospital maternity care services” (APHA).

Furthermore, out-of-hospital births avoid unnecessary, expensive, and potentially harmful interventions that are often routine or even mandated by hospital protocol. My CPM adheres to the Midwives Model of Care, which uses safe, evidence-based practices that have been shown to improve outcomes for mothers and babies, in contrast to many hospital birth conventions, in which: “Many maternity practices that were originally developed to address specific problems have come to be used liberally and even routinely in healthy women. Examples include labor induction, epidural analgesia, and cesarean section. These interventions are experienced by a large and growing proportion of childbearing women; are often used without consideration of alternatives; involve numerous co-interventions to monitor, prevent, or treat side effects; are associated with risk of maternal and newborn harm; and greatly increase costs” (Sakala and Corry).

N's birth in 2007

My first child was born in 2007 at my home following a healthy, complication-free pregnancy. After researching options for childbirth, I concluded that the evidence supported out-of-hospital birth as the safest and most beneficial choice for a low-risk mother and baby. My then insurance provider reimbursed me for much of the cost of the attending CPM’s services.

Continuous, personalized care by a single, qualified midwife and her assistant, along with autonomy, privacy, and integration of birth into normal family life, all contributed to my satisfaction with this positive and fulfilling experience. More than three years later, my daughter and I continue to be exceptionally healthy in every way.

My current pregnancy has been equally healthy. In addition to regular prenatal consultations with the CPM, which have revealed no risk factors, I am actively preparing for childbirth by refreshing my reading on the subject. In conjunction with my midwife’s recommendations and my own value of preventive health, I give careful attention to my daily exercise, rest, and nutrition.

Given my healthy lifestyle and the absence of risk factors, I am confident in my responsible choice of an out-of-hospital birth attended by a CPM. Of course, as discussed with my midwife, I would not hesitate to seek appropriate care at my local hospital should complications arise in pregnancy or labor.

As a healthy, low-risk person who has researched and weighed the advantages and disadvantages of in-hospital and out-of-hospital birth, I ask that you honor my informed choice by reversing your initial decision and contributing equitably toward the costs of my upcoming out-of-hospital birth.

Thank you for your consideration of my 2nd Level Appeal. I look forward to your reply.

The Reply
"The Committee determined that the denial is upheld as prenatal care by a midwife who is not a licensed nurse or nurse-midwife is not a covered benefit under your plan, therefore the charges are your responsibility. ... The Birthing Center must ... provide care under the full-time supervision of a Physician and either a registered nurse or a licensed nurse-midwife...."

Bathtime Impressions

2011-07-24T14:53:00.001-04:00

Academics Begins

2011-07-22T10:35:00.000-04:00

The New Chic

2011-07-22T10:33:00.000-04:00

Back Deck Photo Shoot

2011-07-19T21:12:00.000-04:00

The Dog

2011-07-19T21:00:00.001-04:00

Now, M and our dog Canela have never professed being chummy. At least M has never said this. In fact, she thinks the dog is downright piz wat, or "good for nothing."

There are the dogine nuisances, that's for sure. As a pack animal, Canela learns from and imitates us, which means that she, too, picks and eats broccoli, blueberries, raspberries, cucumbers, and tomatoes from our garden. Before her shock collar gave her a clue about our property boundaries (and limited her jumping up on people or mauling the cat), it wasn't uncommon to find a dead chicken (we believe local chicken house clean outs) on our porch; after the neighbor's cow died, there were leg bones; a deer leg resides still under our shed. She chews up sticks and flip-flops and leaves them strewn about. Only only once has she barked at a stranger coming to our house.

But it's not all bad, as far as I'm concerned. During the school year when I pedal out our driveway, Canela runs down to where our land borders the road to bark goodbye to me (okay, so I admit that she does the same when other bikers or joggers pass). She's always happy to see me. She brings sticks for me to try to grab from her or for playing fetch. In fact, so closely is Canela tied to my heart that I've not quite trained myself to call new daughter by her name; often the dog's slips out. It's an easy mistake, I'll say in my own defense: same number of syllables, same ending syllable sounds, similar familiarity with our back deck, where the dog watched H enter the outside:

But what's topped off Canela's value happened yesterday. Yup, that's a groundhog she's chewing on--we've got ourselves a groundhogger:

We'll see about that piz wat.

Shameless Self Promotion

2011-07-19T20:25:00.003-04:00

I have never once said there has ever been a time when my primary concern wasn't making myself look good. If I had, it wouldn't have sounded very sincere, since I've had a blog now for quite some time, and there can't be anything too much more vainglorious than a blog.

But it's true: As a single dude, I had to sell myself to potential spouses. (Don't worry, I didn't turn into a slob as soon as I married.) As a teacher, I have to sell myself--almost as a personality, I like to imagine--to my students, both to command authority and to be interesting enough to learn from. As a musician, I need people to enjoy me and my music so they will buy recordings and leave tips (and so they will enjoy themselves, too).

Anyway, you know those ads that show up along the side of your Google searches? Let's say you type in "generators"; an ad for "Vainglory Generators, Inc." might show up on the side. I confess: For a time, I became one of Them.

See, Google mailed me a first-time-user promotional code worth $100 to start using Adwords. The deal was that my ad would run alongside results for searches using keywords that I would select, and each time the user clicked on my ad (thereby visiting my website), a small amount would be deducted from the $100. When my money ran out, my ads would slurp to a stop.

I quickly put together an ad for my band's cd, and now, about two weeks later, I have 28 promotional cents left. My ad showed up 438,624 times, netting me 397 clicks. Website page views skyrocketed. Sales...well, the jury's out hanging on that one. iTunes and Amazon don't report their sales to our distributor, CD Baby, for like millions of weeks, so maybe the band's made it big on those sites but I just don't know it yet.

As for sales from CD Baby, which reports immediately, we've had none since the campaign launched.

But as M often sighed when I gave her website traffic updates, "C, does any of that really matter?"

Fam

2011-07-17T12:28:00.001-04:00

Sisters

2011-07-12T21:30:00.001-04:00

Unprepared

2011-07-12T21:13:00.006-04:00

Neither of us had prepared for an only five-hours-start-to-finish labor:

And giving birth on the deck in the presence of the dog (and barely in the presence in the midwife, who'd only arrived eight minutes before) wasn't what M (pictured) had in mind, either:

Tonight as I held H while M read bedtime stories to N, I wondered, "Is there anything M wouldn't be able to do?"

These Days: Segregation and Slavery

2011-07-08T07:17:00.000-04:00

The reporting of oddball incidents of random violence at remote recreational hot spots sometimes feeds my own general wariness when it comes to strangers' potential propensities to do terrible things, leaving me feeling unnecessarily insecure. But I don't think that means I'm completely wacko all of the time.

Take our recent trip to the local swimming hole. It's a federal place, national forest or something, but in the middle of nowhere and out of reach of cell service and everything else. The water is cold and refreshing, and deep enough that I wasn't too worried that the apparently local young man in orange shorts who was climbing the cliff and then up a tree on the cliff and then jumping off would hit bottom (his head on the cliffs, well...).

"It was four feet deeper earlier this month," he told me as he climbed and as I kept N from sliding down the shifty gravel into the depths. His feet smacked the water.

M and I took turns taking leisurely swims for the length of the hole, and then we found a shady spot along a calm inlet and ate our pasta salad picnic.

Soon I noticed that Mr. Orange Shorts and his buddies, plus two other guys who'd been hanging out, weren't swimming any more, but were back at the parking area with a bunch of other guys who'd showed up in their pickup trucks. One truck had driven by the hole, paused while the driver stared down on the scene, and sped in reverse back to the others, where he sat with the others, taking long glances toward the swimming hole--not at us, but at the mixed-race group that had shown up soon after we'd gotten there and were lounging, laughing, and swimming.

I was feeling nervous, and wondered if we should call law enforcement to disburse the racial hatred I sensed in the white locals' clustered, unswimming stares. It made me a bit tense and eager to leave, and as we walked to the car past the trash cans, Mr. Orange Shorts, who was throwing away a beer case, said to me, "I'm scared."

Scared of what? I thought (rather cluelessly). Too much cliff diving? Out loud I gave a polite chuckle.

He continued, "Did you see that woman?"

Oh. There had in fact been a black woman swimming in the water.

I didn't say anything more, and breathed a sigh of relief we'd made it to the main road. It was soberingly astonishing, the local festering of racial hatred.

Side note: I was again taken aback when, several weeks later, I heard in an interview on Fresh Air about the ongoing existence of slavery, in the U.S. tomato industry.

Waiting

2011-07-08T07:11:00.000-04:00

The due date has come and gone, the house, basement, and shed are in order, the freezer's full of food, and we're so confident in the perpetuity of our waiting that on Tuesday I even scheduled an eye doctor appointment for yesterday (after I built a monument to M with blocks).

The baby and its parents also gave N a present on Wednesday evening. On Thursday morning when I got out of bed she was no longer in hers; I found her outside.

Wisdom

2011-06-25T18:50:00.000-04:00

Solomon was wise not because he identified the correct biological mother but because he made apparent which woman was fit to parent.

To My Senator

2011-06-25T18:46:00.000-04:00

A reply note to my senator:

Thanks for letting me know about your “bring home manufacturing jobs” proposal. Another, simpler idea would be to send me a check with the stipulation that I spend it in the next three weeks. It wouldn't be a problem at all for me to help out in that way.

Also, please raise our nation's debt ceiling. It's a good idea, according to The Economist magazine, which I subscribed to only because I had air miles to spend. It's a great magazine.

Thanks again!

In Whom We Have Faith

2011-06-19T22:11:00.001-04:00

The story of Jesus calming the storm (Mark 4:35-41) is often used as a textual basis for “Do not fear, God is here” type pastoral lessons, but that idea, that God is out there looking out for The Fellowship, bugs me at times.

Take that Psalty song “Say to the Lord ‘I Love You’” on one of N’s tapes, in which children talk about their love for God. N has taken to reciting these anecdotes, including the one I find most appalling: After looking so hard for a lost baseball, a boy closes his eyes to pray. When he opens his eyes, there is the baseball, at his feet. “I love you, Lord,” he says fawningly. How unfair for Psalty's child listeners to be taught to expect that kind of guardianship!

While I’m not sure what exactly it is that the Mark story does teach, it seems to me that its message might not be about casting all our cares upon Jesus. In fact, in a way it teaches the opposite, since after the disciples wake up (pray to) Jesus to tell him of their plight, he scolds them: “Where’s your faith?” he asks. I wonder if he followed that with, “In me? Jeesh, I hope not!”

Now, of course the disciples got what they wanted—the wind and waves were calmed—and presumably their question “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” was answered with decisive divine intervention.

But they also got a tongue lashing? So, then, in whom exactly are they to have faith, if not Jesus? The problem-solving power of group thinking? Positive outlooks even in the face of adversity, in this case thinking about their boat more as half empty than half full?

I don't have answers to these questions, but today's NPR story about a hate-crime victim fighting for his attacker's life is a storm-calming testimony.

Bovine Diplomacy

2011-06-16T23:36:00.017-04:00

Author’s note: A college prof once told my class that it’s better to be honest than good; my brother’s wise idea for this blog’s title suggests that both my better and lesser points are, after all, me.

Up until this week I tried polite diplomacy.

Here’s the back story: The cattle owned by the Land Renter (LR) who is renting the farmland on three sides of our property have escaped onto our land many times. When I’ve called him he has always come to herd them away and presented feeble fix-it attempts; on one occasion he rather bluntly pointed out that the “first problem” to deal with were the tree saplings we’d planted apparently too close to the fence (maybe an issue five or ten years down the road). He also said that the cattle-trodden fence sections on the Western Landowner’s side wouldn’t be a problem, since they didn’t have cattle there now, anyway.

I also called the very apologetic Eastern Landowner, and we exchanged assurances that he would replace the fence at his expense (since we’re not using it) and we would be moving our saplings farther from the fence line to prevent any future problems.

When I called the Western Landowner, she merely said she’d look at the fence; a few days later we did in fact see her car slow while driving by.

And then this week:

On Monday, LR’s high-school just-graduated son herded their heifers into the above-mentioned Western Landowner’s section of pasture directly adjacent to our garden and separated from our land by a flimsy fence with at least two unrepaired sections that the cattle have crossed a number of times before. I was napping at the time, and watched foggily from my bed as the herd stampeded into their new domain. I jerked myself awake in time to run out to flag down the son just as he rode his four-wheeler over to the fence.

“There are several bad sections of fence along here,” I said, pointing them out to him.

“I was just coming to check them,” he said.

“I think the cattle have gotten out down here, too,” I said of one place where the fence was stretched and bunched down.

“Have you seen them get out there?” he demanded. “It looks to me like they just pushed against it there.”

“No, I didn’t see that. But it needs to be fixed. These sections need to be fixed before your cattle are in here.”

He got off at the uppermost broken spot, and with his bare hands pulled and twisted together some of the severely damaged woven wire, and then got back on his four wheeler and looked at me.

I looked at the twisted wires, and then at him. “I’m not convinced.”

“I don’t think they’ll get out,” he said.

That’s when I decided that what my mom would later wonder about is right: some people don’t understand the language of courteous neighborliness. I had a miniature explosion.

“You’re telling me that we have to be concerned about our garden—which we put a lot of hard work into—because you run shitty fences. That’s ridiculous and unacceptable.”

He turned sulky and said, “We can put the gates [which he’d used to patch the Eastern Landowner’s side’s vulnerabilities] over these spots. Can we cross your land to do that or do we have to drive all around your property get them?”

“Thank you for asking permission to cross my land,” I said. “Let’s do it now; I’ll help you.” We talked about his and his brother’s schooling while we worked, and ended on good terms albeit with a customarily feebly fixed fence.

My only regret was that I’d said the “shitty” line to him and not to his dad.

Then.

Yesterday we went to visit my parents, and I worried we’d come home today to trodden vegetables. My spirits lifted, though, when we came back to see that all the heifers were in their confines and our garden was as we’d left it—in need of potato bug collection, which we hopped right on.

As we finished up picking the bugs and weeding the onions, a man I’d never met before stopped in to ask if we plan to use the pile of rocks in our pasture (we do). As I talked with him, M, still down at the garden, called for me—a heifer had just then jumped yet another section of fence and was munching our corn.

I ran inside for some leather work gloves and the rope I’d made handy after Monday’s relocation. The man seemed willing to help us, so I said, “I don’t want to chase it back across the fence—I want to catch it.”

We tried and tried to corner it and rope it (“You should take lasso lessons,” he said) until finally with our dear dog's, M’s, the man’s and my coordination, we corralled it in between our two woodpiles facing what I thought was an impermeable section of fence and blocked behind with a pallet tied to some other fence posts.

I started making phone calls, first to my brother-in-law: “Do you know anyone with a cattle trailer we can borrow?” He didn’t, but suggested I try a neighbor down the road. They didn’t answer the phone.

I called another neighbor; they didn’t have a trailer.

Meanwhile, the cow in the makeshift stall was denting the metal trash can of kindling I keep there and occasionally backing towards me as I leaned against the pallet, poking her with a pointy stick when she pushed against the pallet.

I called the man at church who’d first told me about my right to corral and hold for ransom—or even sell to recover costs—trespassing cattle, but he didn’t have a trailer either.

“Look in the newspaper under the livestock section,” he suggested. “There are usually cattle buyers listed there.”

I called my brother-in-law back to see if he had a newspaper. He did, but there were no cattle buyers listed as such.

“Oh, hey, there’s this guy,” he said, reading aloud the name of someone who sounded like he would maybe be able to slip on over and take away the penned heifer. But just as he read the name to me, the cow tried to jump—and smashed to the ground—that “impermeable” fence (and a portion of our woodpile) and moseyed off, eating the grass along our driveway (which goes through the Western Landowner’s land).

“Oh, great,” I said, my heart sinking. “Can you come help me catch it again?” But no—the heifer wasn’t on our land anymore, so it wasn’t fair game.

Boy, was I disappointed.

I called the farmer. Busy. I called the Western Landowner. Busy. I put my gloves and rope away. I called the farmer’s cell phone.

“Hi, LR. You’ve got another section of fence that needs to be fixed; we just chased a heifer out of our garden. It was eating our corn and potatoes, and this is ridiculous.”

“We’ll be right over,” he said.

I called the Western Landowner, and after she tried to say the fence was LR’s responsibility but we couldn’t expect him to fix it, and she couldn’t fix it, I told her that I would not pay for damage to the fence caused by the cattle on her land. She said she’d come by and look at the fence on Saturday.

I drank a glass of water.

LR and his two boys showed up and herded the remaining cattle into the barn lot. I approached them; he said nothing to me.

A moment of quiet passed, and then I started.

“I am really offended,” I said. “You have never once apologized to us for the damage your cattle have caused and for the inconvenience this has been for us. We work hard in our gardens, and we’re not going to tolerate your cattle destroying our crops because you keep crappy fences. I’m extremely frustrated.”

“Let’s go see your garden,” he said.

The damage, while apparent, didn’t look like much. “Your heifer went out through the woodpiles up there, too, and knocked down that fence,” I said. “This is just unacceptable and you need to take responsibility.”

“Now wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve been blasted twice now, and I haven’t even had a chance to speak.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“How much do you think this damage is worth?” he asked, pulling out his wallet.

“This damage is nothing,” I said. “But the rest of the herd could have been right behind this heifer when she escaped, and the potential for a lot more damage is what I’m worried about. We’re lucky we were home—we’d been away since yesterday. You are responsible for your cattle, and you need to fix the fences so they don’t get out.”

He pulled out fifty dollars. “I hear you,” he said. “Here. Take it and buy yourself some corn cobs. I want to keep happy neighbors.”

“I don’t want to be paid for this damage; it’s nothing,” I said. “I forgive you. I don’t want to be paid.”

I started crying. “I forgive you. I just want the fences fixed.”

“Take this,” he said. “We’ll stretch more barbed wire tomorrow, and I’ll go buy a new fencer and put up a powerful electric fence that they will not get through.”

“No,” I said. “Use the money for your materials. This damage isn’t worth it.”

“You’re offended, and I’m offering you this,” he said, tossing the bills into the corn patch.

I don’t remember how the other details fit in, but I remember pointing out that we’re of the same denomination (“I’m Christian,” he clarified. “Well, I am, too,” I said) and asking him if I could give him a hug.

“No,” he said, extending his hand (I shook it). I’m not sure, but I think when I was tearily refusing the money and forgiving him I’d also put my hand on and squeezed his shoulder several times.

“We’ll be over tomorrow morning to fix that fence. After I fix up the new electric fencer, they will not get through. They won’t touch that fence twice.”

At that point I remembered I’d wanted to ask him why I feel the current electric fence pulsing in the heating pipes in our house (when I’m barefoot and touch them); that provided some comic relief.

“This new wire will be hot,” he said. “Like we have around our house,” he said knowingly to his sons.

“Could you put it a few feet back from the wire fence?” I asked. “I have a small daughter.”

“She won’t touch it twice,” he said.

Believe me, I’m going to be checking out that wiring—and our heating pipes—after they’re done working. There are laws about appropriately unregulated current in fences.

And I just may be making a fifty dollar contribution to Heifer International—in LR’s honor.

New Thrill

2011-05-29T21:55:00.001-04:00

Sleeping Child

2011-05-17T21:36:00.001-04:00

I dug this out of last month's folder; N was going through a phase (it lasted an interrupted two nights before I insisted on her sleeping in her bed) of cozying up with her tape player on the floor for the night.

The New Testament Problem (Jesus)

2011-05-13T16:15:00.005-04:00

Jesus' teachings in the Bible about what I've called "life-giving living" merit constant attention.

Key to Christianity's life-giving offering to the world is salvation. While this is often thought of as "God sent Jesus to die for our sins, so we are saved" (the sort of atonement theology I find incompatible with my image of God as loving and full of grace...not that religion is about God as much as it is about us), the story of Zaccheus suggests otherwise.

After Jesus eats with the un-admired and presumably heretofore unrepentant tax collector (that short man with curiosity and tree-climbing skills in his favor), Zaccheus pledges to share his wealth with the poor and to right his past wrongs (if, he says, he's made any). That's when Jesus, who hasn't yet been put to death on the cross, says, "Today salvation has come to this household."

In other words, Zaccheus's salvation is his turning from corruption to sharing and treating everyone right.

Jesus presents some foundational ideas about life-giving living in the Sermon on the Mount, too. Note that the beatitudes seem to be meant for daily life manifestation:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

How these tenets--and the salvation experienced by Zaccheus--play out in today's everyday life is a bit majorly problematic, as Jesus seems to exact a steep price on the status quo.

3,000

2011-05-13T15:47:00.003-04:00

This week I passed 3,000 bicycle commuting miles (in nearly two school years' time).

That's farther than from D.C. to San Francisco or Ottawa to Houston, and down and back from Bydgoszcz to Λεωφόρος Κηφισού.

Delicious

2011-04-29T06:14:00.000-04:00

While the storms that crossed our region have cost much of many, for me they provided a surprise two-hour delay. I relished that email notification, especially since it arrived along with verification that our band's new album is now for sale on iTunes and CDBaby.

I used the morning hours to update our website, read books with my daughter, enjoy the fresh smell of rained fields, and bicycle off to school at a more-than-sane hour.

Along my ride, who should putter onto my rear-view mirror but my brother-in-law J. I had a good lead on him, but knowing he would eventually pass me--he was in a truck, after all--I put the sneakers to the pedals and, with the wind behind me as it was (and the slope being downhill, all in all), enjoyed the glory of maintaining a noteworthy distance for quite a little distance.

"I bet he's thinking, 'Now I know why he eats so much!'" I thought to myself.

I called him later to find out just how fast I was going: 30mph.

"That was impressive," he said. "Now I know why you eat so much!"

Fence Post

2011-04-28T09:12:00.000-04:00

By spoken indications our neighborhood fence situation faces improvement. The owner of the land that the cattle owner rents has told me on the phone that he and the farmer are financially and otherwise responsible for the fence and for keeping in the cattle. Until the fence is fixed, he said, the cattle will be kept in another pasture.

Even louder than his talking, however, is the silence of inaction: the cattle are still there and the fence has not yet been fixed.

But hope springs eternal.

Easter Lilacs

2011-04-24T20:17:00.003-04:00

On the Road to Emmaus

2011-04-24T20:13:00.001-04:00

(A retelling of Luke 24:13-32 based on The Message.)

Cleopas and Justin walk along the road.

Justin: I’m so blue, Cloppy. My mama said there’d be days like this. Well, mama tried.

Cleopas: Tell me about it.

Justin: You forget everything that happened already?

Cleopas: No! I just mean I know what you mean. I’m confused, too.

A stranger walks up to them.

Stranger: May I walk along with you?

Cleopas, looking sad: I’m sorry, did you say something? Can’t you see our long faces?

Stranger: If you’re going my way, I’ll walk with you. What do you guys look so sad about?

Justin (to Cleopas): What a schmuck. Cloppy, let’s just keep on walking. My mama always said, ‘Don’t talk to strangers.’

Cleopas: You don’t know about Jesus’ and his death and now disappearance?

Stranger: Just inklings. What about it?

Justin: The things that happened to Jesus the Nazarene. He was a man of God, a prophet, dynamic in work and word, blessed by both God and all the people. Then our high priests and leaders betrayed him, got him sentenced to death, and crucified him. Let’s keep walking.

Cleopas: And we had our hopes up that he was the One, the One about to deliver Israel. And it is now the third day since it happened. But now some of our women have completely confused us. Early this morning they were at the tomb and couldn't find his body. They came back with the story that they had seen a vision of angels who said he was alive.

Justin: Some of our friends went off to the tomb to check and found it empty just as the women said, but they didn't see Jesus. That’s why we’re sad.

Cleopas: We’re confused, too.

Stranger: So thick-headed! So slow-hearted!

Cleopas: What?

Justin: Did you just insult--? Doggone it, mister, we just laid bare our hearts and minds to you, and you’re calling us schmucks? WHERE is the love?

Stranger: Why can't you simply believe all that the prophets said? Don't you see that these things had to happen, that the Messiah had to suffer and only then enter into his glory?

Justin: I think you have some explaining to do, buddy.

Stranger: Sure looks like it. I think I’ll start at the beginning, with the Books of Moses, and go on through all the Prophets, and point out everything in the Scriptures that’s relevant.

Cleopas: But gosh, I don’t know if we have that much time. We’re only going to some unnamed village--not even Emmaus.

Justin (groaning): Are we there yet?

Stranger: No, but when we do get there, I’ll stay for supper, if you invite me. I can’t get the vinegar taste out of my mouth. Whew! What a hangover.

Justin: Oh, look--here we are at the village. Come on in, Stranger. The day is dying in the west.

Cleopas: Here’s some bread--want some?

Stranger: Thank you. Now, let me bless it, and serve it to you.

Justin: This feels strangely familiar.

Cleopas: Yum, bread.

Justin: No, Cloppy--don’t you remember?

Cleopas: Remember? Remember wha--?

Stranger: Poof! (walks away)

Justin: Where’d he go?

Cleopas: I don’t know. But didn't we feel on fire as he conversed with us on the road, as he opened up the Scriptures for us?

Justin: On fire? I don’t know; maybe it was more like my mama’s chicken soup sensation.

Cleopas: We’d better get back to the others. Let’s go!

Problematics

2011-04-21T12:09:00.000-04:00

Many of my doubts about some of the Old Testament's versions of God could be further developed in the context of Easter week. Maybe readers can respond: How do you connect all these dots--especially with Jesus' crucifixion?

What's most problematic about the Old Testament is that we Christians too easily don't find it terribly problematic.

Even if we feel some level of discomfort with the idea of a God-led Joshua destroying an entire city down to every last donkey (less one prostitute and her family), we ameliorate the gore by allowing God to morph from vengeful in the Old Testament to loving in the New, or maybe we let God's self-revelation to people develop from opaque war paint to a dim mirror.

In short, swallowing Biblical violence can appear to be quite nicely compatible with worship music and sharing "what God is doing in our lives."

However, after reading Shirley Kurtz's vividly critical Sticking Points and attending still another Sunday morning service dedicated to an Old Testament story, it dawned on me this week that it is a common element that troubles me about the Christian standard mode of talk, people who believe God tells them things, and Old Testament stories of God-directed violence.

Regular Christians frequently talk about Jesus as a friend and pray for guidance or healing. More pronounced versions of this sort of connection with God might raise a few eyebrows and squirm factors; the person who stands up to share that "the Lord ministered to me this week when I saw a cross on a big rig grill," or the "I have it on authority that such-and-such is what God wants us to do," come to my mind. More extreme religious scenarios such as Koran burnings, the Crusades, and Gideon slaying the Midionites reveal the evils of hatred and violence in our religion and heritage.

These scenarios spawn from the beliefs that the creator of the universe at least sometimes tells people what to do and, as in the case of our pleading for healing or perhaps Gideon's successful insurgency, is ultimately in charge of the battles we face. At times these beliefs seem a natural response to things beyond our control (check out Paul Simon's Wartime Prayers), and I acknowledge that I am not qualified to discount them. (I am likewise not qualified to confirm these beliefs as well founded, and I am certainly not qualified to decide if anyone else is or isn't similarly qualified.)

However, lest we find ourselves practicing theological a-humility or even genocide, these beliefs merit healthy skepticism: Is associating ourselves with a buddy-system God an attempt to position ourselves over our fellow earthlings or deny the down-to-earth reality of the nitty gritty? Is our praying or spiritual commentary a manipulative attempt at controlling our uncertain surroundings and futures?

The Old Testament puts into sharp focus the problems with confidently held but misconstrued faith ideology. Land grabs, murder, and more are not infrequently described as having God’s oversight. That’s what those Old Testament people maybe believed, anyway; I certainly don’t think it was God who told Gideon to kill the Midionites, but apparently he felt it was.

If Christianity is--as I think it must be--rooted in Jesus' earthly minded practices and teachings, then reading Old Testament stories must be less about figuring out who Joshua’s and Gideon’s heck-of-a-killer God was (whom I’m guessing they designed) and more about two things: understanding the danger of self-conflation with God, and evaluating our own lives so that we may actually experience life-giving living.

Which, might I add, may be even more problematic than a bunch of old stories.

Woof

2011-04-18T20:53:00.000-04:00

A couple nights last week as I dozed in the recliner by N's bed listening to her music and waiting for her to fall asleep, she suddenly burst out along with the Raffi tape, "Bah, bah, black sheep, have you any woof? Yes sir, yes sir, free bags full."

Neighborly Beef

2011-04-05T07:04:00.001-04:00

On Friday I called the tenant farmer whose many cattle have visited our land from both of the farmland properties he rents adjacent to three sides of us, and that evening he stopped over. I pointed out the many tree saplings we've planted and staked along our property and again said that we are concerned about the cattle damaging our gardens.

Instead of offering any assurances of fence mending, apologizing, or asking about--let alone offering to compensate us for--past or future damages, he pointed out that the first problem to deal with is that our saplings (average height: 12 inches) are too close to the fence (maybe in about 30 years).

As for fixing the fences, he said, "That's a long-term proposition, and I don't know how long I'll be renting here," he said. "Let me ask you this: Would you be willing to share the costs? That's how it's done, for boundary fences."

"But I don't need the fence," I said.

I let the two landowners know of the conversation, and consulted a man at church who seems to have experience with such nitty gritty details of life.

"Sometimes you just have to be nasty back," he said. "We had a problem with cattle getting onto our land, once, and so we rounded up the escaped cattle and took them to the livestock sale. You might have to have a heart-to-heart with the farmer and tell him you're going to shoot the cattle if they get in your garden. He's responsible for keeping them contained."

But I'm not so sure he is--both practically speaking and legally. From our state's code: "When any fence which has been built and used by adjoining landowners as a division fence, or any fence which has been built by one, and the other afterwards required to pay half of the value, or expense thereof, under the provisions hereinbefore contained, and which has thereby become a division fence between such lands, shall become out of repair to the extent that it is no longer a lawful fence, either one of such adjoining landowners may give written notice to the other, or to his agent, of his desire and intention to repair such fence, and require him to come forward and repair his half thereof, and if he shall fail to do so within thirty days after being so notified, the one giving such notice may then repair the entire fence so as to make it a lawful fence, and the other shall be liable to him for one-half of the expense thereof."

This is not at all promising; we may have to shell out in order to support our neighbor's commercial cattle ventures even though we have no need for a fence...unless this following code provides us a loophole: "Adjoining landowners shall build and maintain, at their joint and equal expense, division fences between their lands, unless one of them shall choose to let his land lie open or unless they shall otherwise agree between themselves."

And then there's this, from our county's code: "The boundary lines of each lot or tract of land or any stream in the country are hereby declared to constitute a lawful fence for the purposes of [the section of the state code cited above]."

Which part of the code applies? The farm extension agent I called yesterday assured me that it's the farmer's responsibility to keep his cattle in, and if his cattle damage our property we can sue for damages or even hold the cattle "for ransom," but he added that there is "a legal expectation that both parties contribute" to the maintenance of an existing boundary fence.

We're caught in a catch-22: Trust the neighbor's sense of responsibility to keep in his cattle. That means that when they escape to our land and destroy our garden, we can demand damages in court (animal control won't get involved; they say it's a civil matter). But the suit will then be thrown out because we didn't help maintain the fence.

Basically, we're required to pay to support our neighbor's business.

Weekend with Uncle Z

2011-03-28T20:55:00.000-04:00

Dining on Whining

2011-03-25T21:51:00.001-04:00

This afternoon was a rocky start to my spring break, so I just read over some of the advice I posted yesterday to help me keep my current frustrations in perspective. And here they are:

1. Our health insurance company Southern Health will not give out billing codes for us to file our own claims for midwifery services that we already know they don't cover (but we can't appeal that, apparently, until we've been denied a claim, which we can't file without the codes, although we can send a letter of complaint, which would make us sound like whiners when what we really want is a policy rules exception based on sound reasoning). And the lady's supervisor did not call me back as promised. Phooey on Southern Health for being a bureaucracy that doesn't support common sense. We're gonna find the codes on our own little own, doggonit. Advice #14: Go big and don't bail!

2. Points.com has for weeks claimed that they are "unable to process" our attempts to redeem air miles. Customer "service" wrote suggested, "Can you please contact AAdvantage to verify the format of your name? Some part of the information entered cannot be registered." Umm, they asked for name and address and phone number, all of which I entered according to the registered format. Advice #25: Never kick a porcupine with bare feet.

3. So when we called American Airlines' AAdvantage customer "service," the lady said we would probably have to check with points.com, and then she transferred us to an exceptionally rude "tech help" person who taught us how to click on links to find what we'd already good and well found, and then he told us the phone number for points.com (416-595-0000) and hung up. Literally. Advice #7: Never argue with an idiot. They will bring you down to their level and then win with experience.

4. If you keep track of the "numbers" section along the left panel of this blog, you noticed that the "cow escapes onto our land" figure jumped from 9 to 19 today, accompanied by more shoddy fence repairs from the farmer tenant. At what point does our garden deserve police protection? Advice #10. Don't eat yellow snow.

All the Pretty Colors

2011-03-21T20:28:00.001-04:00

N explained her artwork today as being "all colors of people that I drew ... and they're all mixed up ... and dancing and hugging and clapping":

Ash Wednesday

2011-03-20T20:28:00.000-04:00

During a local Ash Wednesday church service, N dug around in the hymnal racks and pulled out the blank welcome cards. The pencil scrawl on one struck me as rather lonesome:
Name: "No name"
Address: "No Address"
City/State/Zip: "Washington"
Phone: "No phone"

The following checklist--turned by the presumed visitor into a true-false quiz--struck in me a melancholic chord, too:
I would like to learn more about [this church]: "false"
I have recently moved into the area: "true"
I am visiting the area for a short time: "false"
I am a student at a local university: "true"
I am a member of a church: "true"
I would appreciate a call or visit: "false"

Email from N

2011-03-18T08:41:00.001-04:00

On most days I leave for school before N wakes up; today was no different. Sometimes she asks to talk on the phone, so M emails me, asking me to call; today was no different, except that the email I received was from N (as dictated to M):

Dear Papi,

I'm gonna tell him that he's gonna come soon. And I love you that you're gonna eat supper and then we'll play. And Mami will cook supper. And I will love. You. All. The. Time. Love, Daddy. And. Then. I. Want. To. Go. Outside and do laundry. And then the supper's gonna cook a long time. Love, Daddy.