Maybe I'm just swept up in the fever of the fad, but I'm trying to be green. Ish. I'm buying all the canvas totes at WalMart and IGA so that I don't use any more plastic bags. Of course, I love that the bags are cute and under two dollars, and I keeping carrying my knitting in them instead of groceries. Oops. Anyway, I'm also attempting to compile a compost heap, which so far only consists of a lot green onions, a smattering of eggshells, and one ground-filled coffee filter. Oh, and I'm trying to garden. Trying.
My first feeble attempt is this "egg" plant I have in my bedroom window. I'm trying to get a pansy seedling to pop up in a pre-fab eggshell. Easter marketing, go figure. Still no sign of green despite the daily sunshine and water that I make sure it gets.
And right outside that window, our garden is visible. I can see the tomato plants Dad set last week. I was going to help with that, but I'm still working on my priorities. Last night, however, I did not miss out on the sowing of the carrot and radish seeds. Dad raked out the first trench for the carrot seeds, sprinkled them along, and pushed the soil back over top of them. I dropped the tiny carrot seeds in the second row. Then, I dug, dropped, and threw dirt over a row of future radishes -- hopefully.
Dad's always been the star gardener, and now we're going to see what I can come up with. I'll be watching.
Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Johnny's
We went fishing yesterday, Dad and I, at a dead man's lake. It was almost eerie standing, fishing rod in hand, in the short grass of his lawn, well-maintained by his son over a year after the accident, while Dad sorted out lures in the tackle box and lit a cigarette, explaining that we'd need the yellow rope called a stringer to bring the caught fish home. I almost felt like we were trespassing.
But I also felt welcome there. I knew the man. I had been at this same house many years ago for a Christmas party. This was the guy who, in front of the gas station/bus stop, gave me the first fig I'd ever eaten that wasn't in a Fig Newton. He had fished with Dad in his lake just days before the accident, had told him to come whenever he wanted and take as many fish with him as he could. After, his son had renewed the offer. So off we took yesterday, in Dad's white third-hand pickup bouncing down the backroads, which I recognized from my old bus route when I was in high school.
There in the yard, I held my rod and reel, fishing line already prepped with hook and neon pink rubber worm wiggling in the breeze, and I watched Dad, cigarette dangling, hunkered over the telescoping box with its three tiers reaching up, offering every type of sure-fire lure imaginable: worms, crickets, minnows, centipedes. All species, all colors, all synthetic materials represented. He selected his first bait of choice, a white underdeveloped-looking grub, and clicked it onto the line, and together, we headed for the weeds. The grass around the bank of the water had not, apparently, been a landscaping priority for the son, as it had been for the father.
As we tromped around the lake's perimeter, looking for a nice starting point, I just followed Dad and watched my feet as they lay down little walls of weeds with each step, like how one cable television show that I once saw described the making of crop circles. We saw a mud turtle, making her own crop cirlces, apparently laying her eggs, Dad said. I wouldn't know. We found a spot that was close enough to some cattails -- "structure is good," he explained -- and far enough away from the shallow edge so that I wouldn't spend the afternoon dragging up hookful after hookful of algae.
Now, I'm no angler, but it seems to me that I go fishing to cast the line and that Dad goes fishing to change the lures. Essentially, I have no idea what I'm doing, but if I have any theory at all about the catching of fish, it is to stay in the same spot, to use the same lure, and to throw it out there over and over. Let the fish come to me if they want to be caught. If I don't get a bite after three casts, no problem. Keep casting until something happens. Wait and see, as foolish as it might be, works for me.
Not Dad, though. I think he used fifteen different lures in the two hours we were there. He was, of course, just trying to figure out what the fish wanted. I, on the other hand, am able to convince myself that if I keep giving my set-up second chances, it'll work out. Either that, or I'm just too lazy to try new things. That's more likely. But let me put it this way, I caught four fish, two of them just as we were giving up on our spot, two of them while Dad was picking out a new spinny, shiny contraption to tempt the fish with, all four of them with that unrealistically pink version of an earthworm. Dad caught one. We threw all of them back and watched as each one happily wove itself back into the lake water.
Right after my fourth bass, Mom called to see if we wanted to meet her and Wade and Day to eat. I told her yeah, that I was getting tired of catching fish. Dad laughed and told me not to tell anyone that I put a hurt on him. He threw out three more casts just in case, and I wished that he'd get something. He didn't, but I knew he was as happy for me as if he'd caught a hundred himself.
We went back through the weeds and up the hill, and I let him put my fishing rod, with the half-eaten worm with the Eagle Eye hook poking through its rubber belly, in the bed of the truck, next to the empty bucket for bringing fish home. Dad put the stringer, still in its package, back in the tackle box. I slid in the passenger side and popped open the half-hot can of Mountain Dew that he put in the truck for me before we left the house, when it was still cold. As we navigated the blind curves and hilltops on our way to Dixon to meet Mom, I pointed out all the houses and who lived in them, names I still remembered from riding the bus to school, and Dad drove and smoked and listened with the windows rolled down.
But I also felt welcome there. I knew the man. I had been at this same house many years ago for a Christmas party. This was the guy who, in front of the gas station/bus stop, gave me the first fig I'd ever eaten that wasn't in a Fig Newton. He had fished with Dad in his lake just days before the accident, had told him to come whenever he wanted and take as many fish with him as he could. After, his son had renewed the offer. So off we took yesterday, in Dad's white third-hand pickup bouncing down the backroads, which I recognized from my old bus route when I was in high school.
There in the yard, I held my rod and reel, fishing line already prepped with hook and neon pink rubber worm wiggling in the breeze, and I watched Dad, cigarette dangling, hunkered over the telescoping box with its three tiers reaching up, offering every type of sure-fire lure imaginable: worms, crickets, minnows, centipedes. All species, all colors, all synthetic materials represented. He selected his first bait of choice, a white underdeveloped-looking grub, and clicked it onto the line, and together, we headed for the weeds. The grass around the bank of the water had not, apparently, been a landscaping priority for the son, as it had been for the father.
As we tromped around the lake's perimeter, looking for a nice starting point, I just followed Dad and watched my feet as they lay down little walls of weeds with each step, like how one cable television show that I once saw described the making of crop circles. We saw a mud turtle, making her own crop cirlces, apparently laying her eggs, Dad said. I wouldn't know. We found a spot that was close enough to some cattails -- "structure is good," he explained -- and far enough away from the shallow edge so that I wouldn't spend the afternoon dragging up hookful after hookful of algae.
Now, I'm no angler, but it seems to me that I go fishing to cast the line and that Dad goes fishing to change the lures. Essentially, I have no idea what I'm doing, but if I have any theory at all about the catching of fish, it is to stay in the same spot, to use the same lure, and to throw it out there over and over. Let the fish come to me if they want to be caught. If I don't get a bite after three casts, no problem. Keep casting until something happens. Wait and see, as foolish as it might be, works for me.
Not Dad, though. I think he used fifteen different lures in the two hours we were there. He was, of course, just trying to figure out what the fish wanted. I, on the other hand, am able to convince myself that if I keep giving my set-up second chances, it'll work out. Either that, or I'm just too lazy to try new things. That's more likely. But let me put it this way, I caught four fish, two of them just as we were giving up on our spot, two of them while Dad was picking out a new spinny, shiny contraption to tempt the fish with, all four of them with that unrealistically pink version of an earthworm. Dad caught one. We threw all of them back and watched as each one happily wove itself back into the lake water.
Right after my fourth bass, Mom called to see if we wanted to meet her and Wade and Day to eat. I told her yeah, that I was getting tired of catching fish. Dad laughed and told me not to tell anyone that I put a hurt on him. He threw out three more casts just in case, and I wished that he'd get something. He didn't, but I knew he was as happy for me as if he'd caught a hundred himself.
We went back through the weeds and up the hill, and I let him put my fishing rod, with the half-eaten worm with the Eagle Eye hook poking through its rubber belly, in the bed of the truck, next to the empty bucket for bringing fish home. Dad put the stringer, still in its package, back in the tackle box. I slid in the passenger side and popped open the half-hot can of Mountain Dew that he put in the truck for me before we left the house, when it was still cold. As we navigated the blind curves and hilltops on our way to Dixon to meet Mom, I pointed out all the houses and who lived in them, names I still remembered from riding the bus to school, and Dad drove and smoked and listened with the windows rolled down.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Honker Lee speaks again.
Twice I've seen a red-winged blackbird sitting on the tallest broken-down cornstalk in the acre, probably standing sentinel over its unborn. It is iconic. It is a poem already written, its existence now a cliche. Here I am, where life is like a poem rather than the poem reflecting life. So I can't write about it. Not allowed. I have to find the spin, the original thought worthy of verse, so I write about not being able to write about the bird who has been written about before. But I imagine that this dilemma, the desire to write about an oft-treated image, has already been bemoaned on the page.
So there it is. I've set up facing mirrors. The eternal picture of a picture, the repeating images, the question echoing back and forth in the dark of the rabbit hole, the portal out of time and into the place where we find an answer as plain and as perfect as a solitary blackbird on a stalk.
Alas, there is nothing left to be done.
So there it is. I've set up facing mirrors. The eternal picture of a picture, the repeating images, the question echoing back and forth in the dark of the rabbit hole, the portal out of time and into the place where we find an answer as plain and as perfect as a solitary blackbird on a stalk.
Alas, there is nothing left to be done.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Not home.
It has been a few months since I've had anything to procrastinate about. Now, I reckon that I am making up for lost time. I'm in Murray tonight because I'm giving some so-called presentations tomorrow to the Spanish classes at Calloway, and to think, I'm staying in a hotel. This Hampton Inn is snazzy, I tell you. I'm tempted to use this fast internet to put up a video, but I really do, at some point, have to plan what it is exactly that I'm going to say to these high school kids tomorrow. But here I am in a hotel room in the town that I lived in for five and a half years. I just couldn't help myself; I swung by Brentwood. But as it was too weird and I felt like a real creeper, I buzzed in and out of the lot before I could think too much about it. I was going to get some Jasmin to-go, but wouldn't you know that the one restaurant that I've really missed is closed on Sunday, so I grabbed some August Moon carry-out and came back here to the room to get my money's worth out of this hotel experience, watching all twenty-two Brotherhood videos I've missed out on. I caught up with Tessa at Culver's, which didn't even exist when I left town three months ago. It's like this isn't the same place, and I don't know how to be here anymore. I've closed the curtains because I've got work to do. I could be anywhere.
Friday, May 12, 2006
The beauty of the light switch
At this point in my life, I have so many things going on that I wonder why I do this to myself. I enjoy the fact that I have taken on a multitude of ventures. There are so many of them, I am not sure which one to deal with first.
I am amazed at how beautifully the trip to Mexico has come together. One minute, I am wishing that I could spend some time down there studying, and the next minute, I have been accepted as a quasi-intern for two weeks to help bridge the language gap for the company my mom works for. I'll probably be in Durango, Mexico, for the first two weeks of August.
In the rapid search to find a way to get to Mexico, I was also directed toward the Fulbright program. I am now planning on starting the application process to be an English Teaching Assistant in Argentina for their 2008 school year (March through November). This is similar to the Spain program I considered in the past, but with the hemispherical changes in the seasons, Fulbright's Argentina program works nicely with my December 2007 graduation. To be accepted as a Fulbright grantee is a prestigious honor. In some ways, I feel inadequate, but at the same time, I have never come across an opportunity more perfect for me. No kidding, the program description says that they give preference to graduates with degrees in Spanish, English, education, or TESOL. Three out of four ain't bad, I say.
It is unbelievable how much my decision to become a Spanish major has changed my life. Yes, of course, graduating in five-point-five years (instead of four-point-zero) means that I'll be left here in the wake of all my friends (especially my bff/), the two best professors I've ever known, the 762 campus prefix, and a billion other things that I have grown to love that are moving on.
I am tempted to believe that I am just another case of arrested development, being afraid to move on to the "real world" and avoiding it by staying in school. But something tells me that if I had graduated with only a secondary teaching certificate for English, I would have never had the opportunity to become whatever it is that I am bound and determine to become. I haven't quite figured it out yet, but I am not worrying. I feel like I am slowly whittling out my passions, and once I find them, I don't think there is any stopping me. I know. I am usually not the cocky sort (how about that false humility?), but I'm beginning to see how I have inherited a sense of determination from a long line of hard-heads.
This morning at the desk, I have been knitting because I have finished with finals, and I've nothing else to do. And knitting lets me think and be productive at the same time. In the middle of all those thoughts, an image I haven't seen in years appeared in my mind. The house where my parents live -- one of the places I call home -- was my grandparents' before it was ours. Off to the side is what we call the "building". I am not sure, but I think my grandfather built it himself. (The fact that the house and the building are so close together that it's a fire-hazard tells me that, yes, he built it.) He was a man of determination. He was a farmer, but he was also an inventor. Innumerable times have I heard my aunts and uncles tell about how he fashioned tools himself if he needed to do something and didn't have the right gadget -- either because he was frugal farmer or because the tool had not been invented yet. (Necessity is indeed the mother of invention.) I've heard how he invented the automated tobacco-plant setting contraption years before it went on the market.
But this morning, a simpler "invention" came to my mind. I guess you could call it the precursor to the modern light switch. This building off the side of my house is lit by a bulb turned off and on by a chain. The problem my grandfather faced (and probably created himself) is that the bulb is located in the middle of the room. By the time a person clambered over all the monkey wrenches and anvils strewn about the darkened building in order to reach the chain, several bones would be likely broken. He remedied this simply. He tied a long string to the end of the chain and tied the other end of that string to a nail in the door post. When someone walks in the door, all you have to do is pull the string that stretches to the middle of the room and there will be light. My dad, who has filled the building with his own tools, gadgets, and general beloved junk, keeps my grandfather's lighting system in place. A "normal" light switch could easily be implemented by my brother-in-law who is an electrician. But we keep it, I guess in a sort of reverence to my grandfather and his mind.
I am sure he was not the only one to think of this solution to the unreachable chain. But the point is he did think of it. And he implemented his solution. He had a problem and he wasn't going to let it stop him from doing what he wanted to do -- which was to keep both shins in working order. And I think I've inherited this. And maybe I've inherited a bit of his zaniness, too. For example, when he got his cordless phone in the early 90s -- the prehistoric model with an extendable antenna a yard long -- he rigged it to his overalls with a shoestring so that he could carry it with him while he mowed the yard. I, too, have had my own harebrained ideas about what will work and what won't. (The cordless phone lost reception so far away from the base, and he wouldn't have heard it over the lawnmower anyhow.) What I have learned, though, is that if I don't take the risk of looking like an idiot (who can't even graduate on time), my life will be far less beautiful.
I am amazed at how beautifully the trip to Mexico has come together. One minute, I am wishing that I could spend some time down there studying, and the next minute, I have been accepted as a quasi-intern for two weeks to help bridge the language gap for the company my mom works for. I'll probably be in Durango, Mexico, for the first two weeks of August.
In the rapid search to find a way to get to Mexico, I was also directed toward the Fulbright program. I am now planning on starting the application process to be an English Teaching Assistant in Argentina for their 2008 school year (March through November). This is similar to the Spain program I considered in the past, but with the hemispherical changes in the seasons, Fulbright's Argentina program works nicely with my December 2007 graduation. To be accepted as a Fulbright grantee is a prestigious honor. In some ways, I feel inadequate, but at the same time, I have never come across an opportunity more perfect for me. No kidding, the program description says that they give preference to graduates with degrees in Spanish, English, education, or TESOL. Three out of four ain't bad, I say.
It is unbelievable how much my decision to become a Spanish major has changed my life. Yes, of course, graduating in five-point-five years (instead of four-point-zero) means that I'll be left here in the wake of all my friends (especially my bff/), the two best professors I've ever known, the 762 campus prefix, and a billion other things that I have grown to love that are moving on.
I am tempted to believe that I am just another case of arrested development, being afraid to move on to the "real world" and avoiding it by staying in school. But something tells me that if I had graduated with only a secondary teaching certificate for English, I would have never had the opportunity to become whatever it is that I am bound and determine to become. I haven't quite figured it out yet, but I am not worrying. I feel like I am slowly whittling out my passions, and once I find them, I don't think there is any stopping me. I know. I am usually not the cocky sort (how about that false humility?), but I'm beginning to see how I have inherited a sense of determination from a long line of hard-heads.
This morning at the desk, I have been knitting because I have finished with finals, and I've nothing else to do. And knitting lets me think and be productive at the same time. In the middle of all those thoughts, an image I haven't seen in years appeared in my mind. The house where my parents live -- one of the places I call home -- was my grandparents' before it was ours. Off to the side is what we call the "building". I am not sure, but I think my grandfather built it himself. (The fact that the house and the building are so close together that it's a fire-hazard tells me that, yes, he built it.) He was a man of determination. He was a farmer, but he was also an inventor. Innumerable times have I heard my aunts and uncles tell about how he fashioned tools himself if he needed to do something and didn't have the right gadget -- either because he was frugal farmer or because the tool had not been invented yet. (Necessity is indeed the mother of invention.) I've heard how he invented the automated tobacco-plant setting contraption years before it went on the market.
But this morning, a simpler "invention" came to my mind. I guess you could call it the precursor to the modern light switch. This building off the side of my house is lit by a bulb turned off and on by a chain. The problem my grandfather faced (and probably created himself) is that the bulb is located in the middle of the room. By the time a person clambered over all the monkey wrenches and anvils strewn about the darkened building in order to reach the chain, several bones would be likely broken. He remedied this simply. He tied a long string to the end of the chain and tied the other end of that string to a nail in the door post. When someone walks in the door, all you have to do is pull the string that stretches to the middle of the room and there will be light. My dad, who has filled the building with his own tools, gadgets, and general beloved junk, keeps my grandfather's lighting system in place. A "normal" light switch could easily be implemented by my brother-in-law who is an electrician. But we keep it, I guess in a sort of reverence to my grandfather and his mind.
I am sure he was not the only one to think of this solution to the unreachable chain. But the point is he did think of it. And he implemented his solution. He had a problem and he wasn't going to let it stop him from doing what he wanted to do -- which was to keep both shins in working order. And I think I've inherited this. And maybe I've inherited a bit of his zaniness, too. For example, when he got his cordless phone in the early 90s -- the prehistoric model with an extendable antenna a yard long -- he rigged it to his overalls with a shoestring so that he could carry it with him while he mowed the yard. I, too, have had my own harebrained ideas about what will work and what won't. (The cordless phone lost reception so far away from the base, and he wouldn't have heard it over the lawnmower anyhow.) What I have learned, though, is that if I don't take the risk of looking like an idiot (who can't even graduate on time), my life will be far less beautiful.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
oh my darling
Spending Christmas night in the Murray. Mom, Pops, and I have made it a tradition. Christmas Eve at Sissy's. Come to Murray on Christmas Day. Do dinner at Asian Buffet. Spend the night here in order to pay the rent and try to make it worthwhile. We'll be back home tomorrow, and the 2005 home-stretch looms.
I'm not sure how well I like writing sixes.
The Christmas spoils are good. Lots of movies, including the Harry Potters. Some books. Some music. Some gift certificates. It's all good. But, to be as cheesy as possible, the real Christmas spirit kicked in when Kathryn opened her first couple presents and called them by name -- baaaay-bee! and bot-tle! And there were a few gifts that I gave out that went over very well. That makes me happy.
The rest-of-break plans are a bit hazy. Nothing planned. Nothing stressful. I can't complain.
I'm not sure how well I like writing sixes.
The Christmas spoils are good. Lots of movies, including the Harry Potters. Some books. Some music. Some gift certificates. It's all good. But, to be as cheesy as possible, the real Christmas spirit kicked in when Kathryn opened her first couple presents and called them by name -- baaaay-bee! and bot-tle! And there were a few gifts that I gave out that went over very well. That makes me happy.
The rest-of-break plans are a bit hazy. Nothing planned. Nothing stressful. I can't complain.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
fried ice cream snowmen
I have five things on today's to-do list. They are all huge undertakings. I haven't done any of them. And my brain is exhausted. Maybe if I do just a leeeetle bit of each of the tasks, it'll count.
Let the countdown begin. The kind of countdown that doesn't really require counting. As long as there are days left in this semester, there are too many and too few.
Possibly inspired by my frosty-wintry looking door wreath, I have the second half of "Winter Wonderland" in my head. It will forever stick out in my mind as theChristmas holiday winter song from my childhood. And to think, I didn't really understand some of the lyrics then. This was me:
Let the countdown begin. The kind of countdown that doesn't really require counting. As long as there are days left in this semester, there are too many and too few.
Possibly inspired by my frosty-wintry looking door wreath, I have the second half of "Winter Wonderland" in my head. It will forever stick out in my mind as the
in the meadow, we can build a snowman / and pretend that he is parson brown (what kind of color is parson brown?) / he'll say, "are you married?" / we'll say, "no, man / but you can do the job when you're in town." (what job? i don't get it. what job?) / later on, we'll conspire (transpire, aspire, perspire) / as we dream by the fire / to face unafraid (this made no sense to me. now i know it was because we should've been singing an adverb instead of an adjective) / the plans that we made / walking in a winter wonderland
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A testament to the times
Someone mentioned having to bring in some sort of cultural artifact -- like clothes, art, food -- from a Spanish speaking country for their class. And it reminded me of the day, just a few days before I left Spain, that Lola taught me how to make tortilla española. Now, I am craving it. I think I'm going to run to a nearby grocery and get some potatoes so I can make tortilla española.
It's practically the end of the semester. Final papers and projects have been assigned. Final exams have been spoken of. (So far, I'm going to have at least two open-book exams. That's new.) That means it's time for me to start wasting my time in hyper mode. I'll probably be working up a new blog design soon. A testament to the times.
It's practically the end of the semester. Final papers and projects have been assigned. Final exams have been spoken of. (So far, I'm going to have at least two open-book exams. That's new.) That means it's time for me to start wasting my time in hyper mode. I'll probably be working up a new blog design soon. A testament to the times.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
Fall break
Due to the rapid procession of this and the last post, I like to point out that One-and-twenty: In Memoriam exists below.
Fall break, heavily marked by birthday festivities, was wonderful. It was spent at the holidayesque getaway (also known as our little farm out in Wanamker). The first two nights involved a campfire. The second night was a larger gathering of family and family-friends. Gifts were plentiful. I very much consider presence of loved ones, food made by loved ones, and things wrapped up by loved ones all gifts. The latter two would include wunnerful coconut cake made by Sissy, a monogrammed fleece blanket from Wade, Day, & Co., CDs (Music Inspired by The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell), movies (Dead Poets Society and Finding Neverland), and books (Before We Were Free, James and the Giant Peach, Searching for God Knows What, Through Painted Deserts, and a really big book full of words, sayings, and expressions) coming from the family and, ahem, myself. I've never gotten so much for my birthday before.
And way too much love was poured out on Facebook. And I even got a card in the mail from Ashley Cottingham, who I had convinced myself had been abducted by aliens.
Even now, I am thinking of more and more things (material and emotional) that I have been gifted with over the past few days. It's so much. Mums from my Mom, a fan from Victoria (She gave it to me because I didn't buy myself a fan in Spain. She doesn't know it, but I did. But I gave it to her. What goes around comes around isn't always a bad thing.), home decor from my sister. I doesn't end.
And I wonder how we end up like this. With so much stuff. I enjoy it. And I am overwhelmed with gratefulness. But isn't it strange how I felt just as overwhelmed with a certain gratefulness because the leaves and the sunlight were beautiful when I was driving back to Murray through 293?
On an unrelated, less, um, philosophical note, you really ought to eat at Penn Station East Coast Subs. They've got a place out by WalMart in Evansville, and from what I gather, they're in other larger cities (ahem, not Murray). I had an Italian sub and it was fabulous. Do yourself a favor and hit them up.
As fall break is officially over, things are looking post-fall breaky. My to-do list takes up the entire front side of my to-do list paper.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back...
Fall break, heavily marked by birthday festivities, was wonderful. It was spent at the holidayesque getaway (also known as our little farm out in Wanamker). The first two nights involved a campfire. The second night was a larger gathering of family and family-friends. Gifts were plentiful. I very much consider presence of loved ones, food made by loved ones, and things wrapped up by loved ones all gifts. The latter two would include wunnerful coconut cake made by Sissy, a monogrammed fleece blanket from Wade, Day, & Co., CDs (Music Inspired by The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell), movies (Dead Poets Society and Finding Neverland), and books (Before We Were Free, James and the Giant Peach, Searching for God Knows What, Through Painted Deserts, and a really big book full of words, sayings, and expressions) coming from the family and, ahem, myself. I've never gotten so much for my birthday before.
And way too much love was poured out on Facebook. And I even got a card in the mail from Ashley Cottingham, who I had convinced myself had been abducted by aliens.
Even now, I am thinking of more and more things (material and emotional) that I have been gifted with over the past few days. It's so much. Mums from my Mom, a fan from Victoria (She gave it to me because I didn't buy myself a fan in Spain. She doesn't know it, but I did. But I gave it to her. What goes around comes around isn't always a bad thing.), home decor from my sister. I doesn't end.
And I wonder how we end up like this. With so much stuff. I enjoy it. And I am overwhelmed with gratefulness. But isn't it strange how I felt just as overwhelmed with a certain gratefulness because the leaves and the sunlight were beautiful when I was driving back to Murray through 293?
On an unrelated, less, um, philosophical note, you really ought to eat at Penn Station East Coast Subs. They've got a place out by WalMart in Evansville, and from what I gather, they're in other larger cities (ahem, not Murray). I had an Italian sub and it was fabulous. Do yourself a favor and hit them up.
As fall break is officially over, things are looking post-fall breaky. My to-do list takes up the entire front side of my to-do list paper.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I heart EEIA
Like I said. I heart EEIA. This is our Tuesday-night English ed girls getting together for some pizza, stories, laughter, and more laugther.
Thank God for this. Otherwise, English ed would something like suck. We having a dress-like-a-professor Halloween thing. Too exciting.
This afternoon, I found out by a fluke that the student teacher orientation for people wanting to student teach during fall 2006 was today. So in a last-minute rash decision, I went. Of course, this doesn't mean that's when I'm student teaching. If I chicken out on Spanish, though, that would be the semester and it would've been too late to do anything. Though I'm 99.9% certain I'm doing Spanish, too. I just freak out waaay to hard about this stuff. I just have to keep telling myself that I can do it.
Thank God for this. Otherwise, English ed would something like suck. We having a dress-like-a-professor Halloween thing. Too exciting.
This afternoon, I found out by a fluke that the student teacher orientation for people wanting to student teach during fall 2006 was today. So in a last-minute rash decision, I went. Of course, this doesn't mean that's when I'm student teaching. If I chicken out on Spanish, though, that would be the semester and it would've been too late to do anything. Though I'm 99.9% certain I'm doing Spanish, too. I just freak out waaay to hard about this stuff. I just have to keep telling myself that I can do it.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Refresh
The remainder of my weekend was good. Holly, Jenny, and I had great times at Adrienne's. There's nothing like playing all sixteen possible rounds of Scattergories with people who give answers like "Mussolini," showing their intelligence, and "Teeky Teeky" (I'm sure I didn't spell that as it should have been, but it can only be appreciated as it is spoken, anyway.), showing their, um, creativity. Holly and I have this uncanny ability to give the same random answers, which, amusing as it is, docks us both points. But never fear. She usually comes out on top, and I, well, very much lost. Good times, nevertheless.
Sunday was laid back. Did some reading and watched Mrs. Doubtfire. Did the Sunday WalMart ritual.
Today has been okay. Much colder than anticipated. I might've enjoyed it much more had I layered. Can't believe it layering season. Anyway, Spanish was quite fun. I even found out I got a 100 on some things, including a presentation. Promptly after Dr. Bodevin gave me compliments on improvising my speech with little use of notes, I made an extremely elementary blunder in front of the class. Eh, keeps one humble, I s'pose.
So. I want to go to the Jars of Clay concert on November 19, namely because Donald Miller of Blue Like Jazz fame is speaking. I'm feeling very conflicted because that is the night I was going to see Goblet of Fire. A dilemma, indeed. I need to figure out what to do. Might have to finagle a Sunday showing of the movie. Eh, it's over a month away. But I am thinking of going ahead and buying my concert ticket. Oh, despair.
In Spanish, we've been discussing an article about happiness, and at the end, there is a Rita Hayworth quote that would be translated like this:
The two attributes that marked my happiness are good health and bad memory.
Hmm.
Sunday was laid back. Did some reading and watched Mrs. Doubtfire. Did the Sunday WalMart ritual.
Today has been okay. Much colder than anticipated. I might've enjoyed it much more had I layered. Can't believe it layering season. Anyway, Spanish was quite fun. I even found out I got a 100 on some things, including a presentation. Promptly after Dr. Bodevin gave me compliments on improvising my speech with little use of notes, I made an extremely elementary blunder in front of the class. Eh, keeps one humble, I s'pose.
So. I want to go to the Jars of Clay concert on November 19, namely because Donald Miller of Blue Like Jazz fame is speaking. I'm feeling very conflicted because that is the night I was going to see Goblet of Fire. A dilemma, indeed. I need to figure out what to do. Might have to finagle a Sunday showing of the movie. Eh, it's over a month away. But I am thinking of going ahead and buying my concert ticket. Oh, despair.
In Spanish, we've been discussing an article about happiness, and at the end, there is a Rita Hayworth quote that would be translated like this:
The two attributes that marked my happiness are good health and bad memory.
Hmm.
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