So as you can see, there have been some changes around here, prompted by the generous Sir Slater. It's a super-cool look, I think, but it'll take some poking around to get it to sit right. In the meantime, I have grading! There are only three weeks or so left in the semester, and that audio book event is this upcoming weekend, so it's getting to be rather hectic. I'll get to this as soon as possible.
My advice for today: Don't start watching anything about conspiracy theories on YouTube or you'll soon find your whole day sucked away into a world of bizarre weirdness.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Birwhale the Avenger!
I was watching A Bit of Fry & Laurie the other day and saw this sketch, which made me laugh very hard. I fully intend to use this on the boys when they come of age:
Warning: This clip contains the medical term for male genitalia, so make sure your Victorian great aunt isn't in the room when you play it, or she might swoon or come down with the vapors...
Warning: This clip contains the medical term for male genitalia, so make sure your Victorian great aunt isn't in the room when you play it, or she might swoon or come down with the vapors...
Friday, April 25, 2008
Your Advice Solicited!
For my upcoming audio book workshop/demo recording session, I need to come up with four one-minute excerpts to read. The idea is to demonstrate my skills and the kind of works that would be excellent given my reading style and vocal qualities. I'm sitting here with a stack of books, trying to figure out which ones might be best, and I thought I'd enlist your aid in the matter.
If anyone has any ideas of a book that you'd enjoy hearing read in my dulcet tones, I'm all ears to hear about it. (If you haven't heard my dulcet tones for a while, you can give a listen to my wee commercial demo here. [Man, but it's weird to hear that again after many months of pretending it doesn't exist.]) Below is a list of the kinds of works that are most popular in audio format these days:
A few other guidelines:
I will certainly have this together by next weekend in any case, but any clever ideas you people have would be most appreciated, especially because my ability to tell what kind of work would suit my voice is often lacking. I thank you in advance.
If anyone has any ideas of a book that you'd enjoy hearing read in my dulcet tones, I'm all ears to hear about it. (If you haven't heard my dulcet tones for a while, you can give a listen to my wee commercial demo here. [Man, but it's weird to hear that again after many months of pretending it doesn't exist.]) Below is a list of the kinds of works that are most popular in audio format these days:
- Mystery and Suspense
- Fiction (New Fiction, Best Seller, Science Fiction)
- Classic (Fiction or Fact)
- Nonfiction (Fact, History, Science, Biography, Memoirs, Political)
- Humor, Poetry and Drama
- Young Adult (Contemporary, Children's Collections)
- Instructional (Philosophy, Education, Business, Management)
- Personal Growth (Self Help, Health, Diet, Exercise, Spiritual, Motivational)
A few other guidelines:
- It doesn't have to be a work no one's recorded before.
- While any work is open, I should probably stick to American works (as the word is that there are plenty of real Brits lined up to record British fiction).
- If you have any suggestions for particular events or passages of the novel that really strike you as being fantastic, that would be excellent to know.
- I'm supposed to find one work with first-person narration, one with third-person, and the third is open (but might be a useful slot for non-fiction).
- If I've read the book, that's a large bonus. (Or, alternatively, if it is a work I could read in the next week or so, that might be manageable as well.)
- If it falls within my purview of specialty (like a non-fiction work about literature, writing, or Christian apologetics, or historical, rural, humor, fantasy, or science fiction on the fiction side), this is also a bonus. On the other hand, I'm probably not going to rock at urban fiction or medical texts, for example.
I will certainly have this together by next weekend in any case, but any clever ideas you people have would be most appreciated, especially because my ability to tell what kind of work would suit my voice is often lacking. I thank you in advance.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
My Street Cred Just Went Up
Today I had the privilege of seeing Conspiracy of Thought, our friend Ben Stewart's band, live here at Valley College. (Make sure to check the volume level on your computer before you click that link—it'll automatically start playing one of their songs, and if you have too much bass in your speakers, it might blow out your windows.) It took absolutely Herculean efforts to get them here—apparently, if you're not playing folk music, polkas, or classical music, SBVC's insurance doesn't cover you. Plus some administration folk are clearly still living in the 1940's when it comes to their sensibility about what students might want to hear... A little socially conscious hard rock was good to see, and a live music performance is always a hoot.
I had a few students in attendance who were surprised to see me there—their shock was audible when they saw me go up and hang out with Ben. (He's the one with the goat horns of hair, in case you haven't met him.) So now maybe the laughter won't be quite so uproarious when I tell my classes I'm "down with the street."
I'm getting over some kind of weird sinus thing, so not much else to report at this point. The semester is drawing to a close, so grading is mounting but the end is in sight. I should get back to that grading now, actually. Ciao.
I had a few students in attendance who were surprised to see me there—their shock was audible when they saw me go up and hang out with Ben. (He's the one with the goat horns of hair, in case you haven't met him.) So now maybe the laughter won't be quite so uproarious when I tell my classes I'm "down with the street."
I'm getting over some kind of weird sinus thing, so not much else to report at this point. The semester is drawing to a close, so grading is mounting but the end is in sight. I should get back to that grading now, actually. Ciao.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Today I Am a Man
After much harrowing struggle, yesterday I defeated my mechanical foes. Yes, I changed the oil in not one but two cars, and managed not to destroy myself (or either car, as far as I know) in the process.
After church was over, I said my prayers and descended to our lower driveway to assault the beast that is my Subaru. Being my mother's son, I was highly over-prepared, but I didn't want to be found missing anything. I think I'm coming to realize that, for me, at least, being overprepared is an indicator of my lack of confidence in myself. I'm terrified I'll fail, so buying every possible piece of equipment ahead of time, reading and re-reading the instructions (and rechecking them at nearly every stage of the process), and heading in with a negative attitude are all ways to make up for my self-perceived ineptitude and inability to cope. (Not good, I know, but there you are.)
I was nearly stymied before I'd properly begun: no matter what I did, I could not loosen the bolt on the bottom of the oil pan. After a few trips to the hardware store for different wrenches and one to the auto parts store for "penetrating oil," I finally managed to wring that monster free. (In case you ever need to change the oil on a '99 Subaru Legacy-Outback, get an 11/16" combo wrench. Save yourself the pain of trying to pry off an old rounded-off nut with an adjustable wrench.) Once that part got done, the rest went pretty smoothly, and I only got covered in oil once. (It was just my hand, but it was pretty impressive.) I also only dropped the bolt into the used oil once. I did go through about 2/3 of a roll of shop towels, but other than that, it was all clear sailing.
The minivan was a bit trickier, what with the odd placement of the oil filter and having to jack the thing up due to its low deck. It, too, had a monstrously stubborn nut (the auto parts clerk said that if you've had your oil changed by shop guys on a rack, they can get a lot more torque on the thing than you can lying on your back underneath the car)—if you have a 2000 Toyota Sienna, get yourself a number 14 metric socket. (You're welcome.) But that, too, proved surmountable, and as far as I know, both the vehicles are running fine. I had nightmares about walking out and seeing a lake of oil under the cars this morning, but all appears to be going fine.
I don't know that I now feel like an auto expert, and it took me far longer than it really should have, but it was good to know that when I attempt something with my hands it won't always blow up in my face, and that—given a large swath of time and many options—I can work my way around obstacles. Granted, I will normally find the slowest, most painful and difficult way to do something, but I can get it done.
After church was over, I said my prayers and descended to our lower driveway to assault the beast that is my Subaru. Being my mother's son, I was highly over-prepared, but I didn't want to be found missing anything. I think I'm coming to realize that, for me, at least, being overprepared is an indicator of my lack of confidence in myself. I'm terrified I'll fail, so buying every possible piece of equipment ahead of time, reading and re-reading the instructions (and rechecking them at nearly every stage of the process), and heading in with a negative attitude are all ways to make up for my self-perceived ineptitude and inability to cope. (Not good, I know, but there you are.)
I was nearly stymied before I'd properly begun: no matter what I did, I could not loosen the bolt on the bottom of the oil pan. After a few trips to the hardware store for different wrenches and one to the auto parts store for "penetrating oil," I finally managed to wring that monster free. (In case you ever need to change the oil on a '99 Subaru Legacy-Outback, get an 11/16" combo wrench. Save yourself the pain of trying to pry off an old rounded-off nut with an adjustable wrench.) Once that part got done, the rest went pretty smoothly, and I only got covered in oil once. (It was just my hand, but it was pretty impressive.) I also only dropped the bolt into the used oil once. I did go through about 2/3 of a roll of shop towels, but other than that, it was all clear sailing.
The minivan was a bit trickier, what with the odd placement of the oil filter and having to jack the thing up due to its low deck. It, too, had a monstrously stubborn nut (the auto parts clerk said that if you've had your oil changed by shop guys on a rack, they can get a lot more torque on the thing than you can lying on your back underneath the car)—if you have a 2000 Toyota Sienna, get yourself a number 14 metric socket. (You're welcome.) But that, too, proved surmountable, and as far as I know, both the vehicles are running fine. I had nightmares about walking out and seeing a lake of oil under the cars this morning, but all appears to be going fine.
I don't know that I now feel like an auto expert, and it took me far longer than it really should have, but it was good to know that when I attempt something with my hands it won't always blow up in my face, and that—given a large swath of time and many options—I can work my way around obstacles. Granted, I will normally find the slowest, most painful and difficult way to do something, but I can get it done.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Heated Debate
Back on Wednesday I attended a book discussion at school. These are usually sparsely attended (especially the ones I lead: one person showed up for my discussion of the excellent World War Z, and two came for the talk about the satirical delight that is I Am America (And So Can You!)) and the level of discussion is kept on the surface: people talk about what they liked and didn't like, which events made them happy or sad, and usually connect the plot points to personal issues they with which they are dealing. Real "literary" discussion almost never takes place.
Those of you who noted that the sidebar contained the book The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox may have wondered why it was there: it certainly isn't the kind of novel I'd normally pick up for myself. Well, the book discussion was the answer. (I most likely would have skipped it, save that these discussions count toward my "professional development" hours for the college, and attending is easier than actual work.)
The book is fine. There's nothing extraordinary, but it is interesting. It was easy to get through its 200-some-odd pages, the characters had some development, and the plot (about a woman who discovers she has a great-aunt of whom she has never before heard and who has spent the last sixty years in a mental institution) clipped along. The discussion (attended by six people) was much like all the others we've had.
One issue, though, kept rearing its head. There are some surprising turns in the novel (I won't mention them, on the off chance that one of you readers might pick the book up yourself someday—they are somewhat critical to the story), and I argued that these weren't justified by the character's actions. Many of those present thought this was unfair, and that they could fully identify with and understand the character's actions. What began to emerge was that these other readers were willing to accept the actions because they, themselves, could fill in the emotions the character must have been feeling and the logic she must have used. On my part, I kept insisting that it wasn't our job to "fill in" the character work for the author; it is the author's job to lay the groundwork so that, when a character acts in a surprising way, we aren't totally confused as to why she has done so. This is especially true because the novel delves extensively into the thoughts and feelings of each of the characters—it wasn't even possible to argue (as these folks claimed) that we can't know what goes on in a person's head, because that's exactly what the novel purports to show us.
It's a bit like a murder mystery in which you might follow a detective as he tracks down all the leads, and then in the end someone we've never heard of comes forward and says, "Oh, I did it; he was my former business partner twenty years ago and I decided to do him in." I don't need everything spelled out for me (trust me—I'm a huge fan of books that are subtle, difficult, and even abstruse), and having a character act in a surprising way is fantastic when the foundation for that action is laid earlier in the work. It's like getting to the end of The Sixth Sense and seeing all the pieces you watched earlier fall into place: the movie earns the surprise by building it into the fabric of the story that comes before.
At any rate, this made me realize that most folk are reading books to see something within themselves confirmed by a story; at best, they work with the bare plot elements and characters and insert their own understanding where it is not made clear by the author. A plot outline and character sketches would probably be just as effective for them, because they will substitute their own emotions and thoughts as needed. This is probably also why most books don't need to have much literary merit (much to my sadness): the quality of the writing isn't as important as events and characters people can identify with.
All this made me think of C.S. Lewis' excellent An Experiment in Criticism (which I've mentioned many a time and oft before) and his discussion of the differences between how the "many" and how the "few" look at art. It's a fascinating inquiry into why there are popular tastes and why only a small population of readers/viewers/observers prefer works of a difficulty or quality for which the "many" do not care. (Ask the average class of community college students if they like Shakespeare and count how many assents you get, for example. I'd peg the number at between 5% and 10%. Not that anyone has to like Shakespeare in particular, but the class of people who consider his work brilliant and artful is always small.)
In brief, Lewis' thesis is that the many look to "do" things with art, while the few look to have something "done to" them by art. I'll let his much more refined and interesting words end this long post:
Those of you who noted that the sidebar contained the book The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox may have wondered why it was there: it certainly isn't the kind of novel I'd normally pick up for myself. Well, the book discussion was the answer. (I most likely would have skipped it, save that these discussions count toward my "professional development" hours for the college, and attending is easier than actual work.)
The book is fine. There's nothing extraordinary, but it is interesting. It was easy to get through its 200-some-odd pages, the characters had some development, and the plot (about a woman who discovers she has a great-aunt of whom she has never before heard and who has spent the last sixty years in a mental institution) clipped along. The discussion (attended by six people) was much like all the others we've had.
One issue, though, kept rearing its head. There are some surprising turns in the novel (I won't mention them, on the off chance that one of you readers might pick the book up yourself someday—they are somewhat critical to the story), and I argued that these weren't justified by the character's actions. Many of those present thought this was unfair, and that they could fully identify with and understand the character's actions. What began to emerge was that these other readers were willing to accept the actions because they, themselves, could fill in the emotions the character must have been feeling and the logic she must have used. On my part, I kept insisting that it wasn't our job to "fill in" the character work for the author; it is the author's job to lay the groundwork so that, when a character acts in a surprising way, we aren't totally confused as to why she has done so. This is especially true because the novel delves extensively into the thoughts and feelings of each of the characters—it wasn't even possible to argue (as these folks claimed) that we can't know what goes on in a person's head, because that's exactly what the novel purports to show us.
It's a bit like a murder mystery in which you might follow a detective as he tracks down all the leads, and then in the end someone we've never heard of comes forward and says, "Oh, I did it; he was my former business partner twenty years ago and I decided to do him in." I don't need everything spelled out for me (trust me—I'm a huge fan of books that are subtle, difficult, and even abstruse), and having a character act in a surprising way is fantastic when the foundation for that action is laid earlier in the work. It's like getting to the end of The Sixth Sense and seeing all the pieces you watched earlier fall into place: the movie earns the surprise by building it into the fabric of the story that comes before.
At any rate, this made me realize that most folk are reading books to see something within themselves confirmed by a story; at best, they work with the bare plot elements and characters and insert their own understanding where it is not made clear by the author. A plot outline and character sketches would probably be just as effective for them, because they will substitute their own emotions and thoughts as needed. This is probably also why most books don't need to have much literary merit (much to my sadness): the quality of the writing isn't as important as events and characters people can identify with.
All this made me think of C.S. Lewis' excellent An Experiment in Criticism (which I've mentioned many a time and oft before) and his discussion of the differences between how the "many" and how the "few" look at art. It's a fascinating inquiry into why there are popular tastes and why only a small population of readers/viewers/observers prefer works of a difficulty or quality for which the "many" do not care. (Ask the average class of community college students if they like Shakespeare and count how many assents you get, for example. I'd peg the number at between 5% and 10%. Not that anyone has to like Shakespeare in particular, but the class of people who consider his work brilliant and artful is always small.)
In brief, Lewis' thesis is that the many look to "do" things with art, while the few look to have something "done to" them by art. I'll let his much more refined and interesting words end this long post:
This attitude... might almost be defined as 'using' pictures. While you retain this attitude you treat the picture—or rather a hasty and unconscious selection of elements in the picture—as a self-starter for certain imaginative and emotional activities of your own. In other words, you 'do things with it'. You don't lay yourself open to what it, by being in its totality precisely the thing it is, can do to you.
You are thus offering to the picture the treatment which would be exactly right for two other sorts of representational object; namely the ikon and the toy. (I am not here using the word ikon in the strict sense given it by the Eastern Church; I mean any representational object, whether in two dimensions or three, which is intended as an aid to devotion.)
A particular toy or a particular ikon may be itself a work of art, but that is logically accidental; its artistic merits will not make it a better toy or a better ikon. They may make it a worse one. For its purpose is, not to fix attention upon itself, but to simulate and liberate certain activities in the child or the worshipper. The Teddy-bear exists in order that the child may endow it with imaginary life and personality and enter into a quasi-social relationship with it. That is what 'playing with it' means. The better this activity succeeds the less the actual appearance of the object will matter. Too close or prolonged attention to its changeless and expressionless face impedes the play. A crucifix exists in order to direct the worshipper's thought and affections to the Passion. It had better not have any excellencies, subtleties, or originalities which will fix attention upon itself. hence devout people may, for this purpose, prefer the crudest and emptiest ikon. The emptier, the more permeable; and they want, as it were, to pass through the material image and go beyond. For the same reason it is often not the costliest and most lifelike toy that wins the child's love...
The distinction can hardly be better expressed than by saying that the many use art and the few receive it."
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Why Do They Keep Hurting Me?
I can only guess the weird writing and painful constructions in my students' papers this semester are meant as deliberate attacks. They have to be purposeful attempts to harm me: how else could you explain yet another mixed metaphor like this one:
I don't have much else to report: after grading and chasing children and reading the sad stories from the blogs of others, I've not been doing much of interest. Yesterday we put up some solar lights in the yard, and we've been seeing far more birds at our new bird feeders, which we have been identifying as we can. Spiritual things are bubbling along, and I have some new ideas for the writing that I have yet to have time to get to lately.
Um... The weather's nicer today... I saw a dog once... Uh...
Okay. I'm going now. I'll check back in tomorrow to talk about doing some laundry and filling up the car with gas. I know it will be hard to wait for that.
"He is trying to play the Almighty by pointing down from the sky at this ant farm and choosing the next human sacrifice."Where does an ant farm come up with human sacrifices? You can begin to get a glimmer of what the student was after, but the confusion is rife. And then this, from later in the same paper:
"He took one taste of Pandora's Box and will not let go."Does this student have any idea of what Pandora's Box was, and that one would most likely not want to lick it? Again, the very attempt should tell you that this was an honors student's work, but it's just not working. I think overall this is honors class is struggling more than any I've had before.
I don't have much else to report: after grading and chasing children and reading the sad stories from the blogs of others, I've not been doing much of interest. Yesterday we put up some solar lights in the yard, and we've been seeing far more birds at our new bird feeders, which we have been identifying as we can. Spiritual things are bubbling along, and I have some new ideas for the writing that I have yet to have time to get to lately.
Um... The weather's nicer today... I saw a dog once... Uh...
Okay. I'm going now. I'll check back in tomorrow to talk about doing some laundry and filling up the car with gas. I know it will be hard to wait for that.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Outdoor Escapades
This weekend was a pleasant one for being out and about.
On Saturday, I went with Gandalf and Boromir up to the Exploration Trail just above our house in Arrowbear. I've talked about it before—it's a great four-mile trail that wends from the highway up to the Children's Forest just by the Keller Peak Fire Lookout. It feels surprisingly isolated and climbs up through a couple of climate zones. We couldn't make it all the way to the top because some rather large patches of ice-crusted snow were still drifted over the trail at the high end. Would that I had an ice axe! It would have been a perfect time to learn how to glissade and all about self-arrest. (Gandalf is wise in such things.) As it was, it started getting a bit hairy, and none of us really wanted a ride to the canyon floor. But it was a good workout, and I got to identify a few new trees (limber and Coulter pines). I wasn't even aware how much I had missed being out on the trail; now I just have to find a way to do it many more times in the near future.
On Sunday, we went down to a park in Highland to meet up with my grandparents on my mother's side. It was broiling hot (Summer officially starts in the Inland Empire on April 12th; it'll probably end sometime in early November. This is among the several reasons I want to flee.), but we took all the bikes and the boys were happy for the chance to ride on flat-ish trails. It was the first real riding either Joanna or I had done on the bikes handed down to us by her sister's family. It has been too long and the riding still felt odd, but it was fun. Of course, if we're going to do much more of that, we really need a bike rack; as it was, we had to take two cars, the Subaru loaded down with nothing but bicycles, and one leftover cycle in the minivan.
My folks also brought a couple of kid-sized bats and whiffle balls, so we practiced batting with the boys a bit. Some strange memories about little league came floating back, but we all enjoyed it. My dad taught the boys to make "angry faces" to intimidate the pitcher, and I think that helped them the most. That, and saying, "Grrr!" just before swinging.
On Saturday, I went with Gandalf and Boromir up to the Exploration Trail just above our house in Arrowbear. I've talked about it before—it's a great four-mile trail that wends from the highway up to the Children's Forest just by the Keller Peak Fire Lookout. It feels surprisingly isolated and climbs up through a couple of climate zones. We couldn't make it all the way to the top because some rather large patches of ice-crusted snow were still drifted over the trail at the high end. Would that I had an ice axe! It would have been a perfect time to learn how to glissade and all about self-arrest. (Gandalf is wise in such things.) As it was, it started getting a bit hairy, and none of us really wanted a ride to the canyon floor. But it was a good workout, and I got to identify a few new trees (limber and Coulter pines). I wasn't even aware how much I had missed being out on the trail; now I just have to find a way to do it many more times in the near future.
On Sunday, we went down to a park in Highland to meet up with my grandparents on my mother's side. It was broiling hot (Summer officially starts in the Inland Empire on April 12th; it'll probably end sometime in early November. This is among the several reasons I want to flee.), but we took all the bikes and the boys were happy for the chance to ride on flat-ish trails. It was the first real riding either Joanna or I had done on the bikes handed down to us by her sister's family. It has been too long and the riding still felt odd, but it was fun. Of course, if we're going to do much more of that, we really need a bike rack; as it was, we had to take two cars, the Subaru loaded down with nothing but bicycles, and one leftover cycle in the minivan.
My folks also brought a couple of kid-sized bats and whiffle balls, so we practiced batting with the boys a bit. Some strange memories about little league came floating back, but we all enjoyed it. My dad taught the boys to make "angry faces" to intimidate the pitcher, and I think that helped them the most. That, and saying, "Grrr!" just before swinging.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
A Clarification
The response so far on my last post has been very touching, and I am blessed to have so many folk concerned for me. I did want to clear up, though, that the post wasn't meant to indicate any kind of spiritual malaise or depression—the opposite, in fact, is true.
I am gaining the abilities of which I speak: taking on woodworking projects, wilderness treks, home repair and the like. I'm proud of that goofy little side table I built, and the step, and the work area I made for myself to work on them (though I will remember next time to take down the awning before it snows...). When I took dad out on the "forced death march" last year, there was a bonding there that there hadn't before, because I wasn't feeling either useless or intimidated. The old man showed me a few things, and I showed him a few things. He coached me in fly fishing; I showed off my new stove and tarptent skills.
There are always, I think, issues with fathers and sons—there's no way to avoid the masculine difficulties of competition and the human difficulties of personality differences. My father is a charger: when a problem presents itself, he tackles it. His motto has always been that no one will ever tell him there's something he can't do. That arose from his own being and upbringing. On the other hand, I'm a retreater: when a problem presents itself, I avoid it. He's had to learn to reign in on some things; I've had to learn to how to step out. And that process is happening.
The post was only my musings on why this seemed to be taking up such a big chunk of my time and brainpower lately. I suppose if there are any regrets they are just that I took so long to recognize and seek these skills. I like (in general) who I am and where I am. Sure, I'd like a clearer memo about where I'm headed, but I'm learning to enjoy the journey and content to trust that God will use every ounce of these experiences to His own glory in my life somewhere.
So many thanks for the interest and care shown, and your prayers are always much appreciated, but I am well and happy to be gaining some small wisdom on my path.
I am gaining the abilities of which I speak: taking on woodworking projects, wilderness treks, home repair and the like. I'm proud of that goofy little side table I built, and the step, and the work area I made for myself to work on them (though I will remember next time to take down the awning before it snows...). When I took dad out on the "forced death march" last year, there was a bonding there that there hadn't before, because I wasn't feeling either useless or intimidated. The old man showed me a few things, and I showed him a few things. He coached me in fly fishing; I showed off my new stove and tarptent skills.
There are always, I think, issues with fathers and sons—there's no way to avoid the masculine difficulties of competition and the human difficulties of personality differences. My father is a charger: when a problem presents itself, he tackles it. His motto has always been that no one will ever tell him there's something he can't do. That arose from his own being and upbringing. On the other hand, I'm a retreater: when a problem presents itself, I avoid it. He's had to learn to reign in on some things; I've had to learn to how to step out. And that process is happening.
The post was only my musings on why this seemed to be taking up such a big chunk of my time and brainpower lately. I suppose if there are any regrets they are just that I took so long to recognize and seek these skills. I like (in general) who I am and where I am. Sure, I'd like a clearer memo about where I'm headed, but I'm learning to enjoy the journey and content to trust that God will use every ounce of these experiences to His own glory in my life somewhere.
So many thanks for the interest and care shown, and your prayers are always much appreciated, but I am well and happy to be gaining some small wisdom on my path.
Friday, April 11, 2008
An Open Letter to My Father
You know that all these tasks I've been taking on lately which require actual, practical work are to impress you, don't you?
That step I built for the front door was needed, of course, and I do enjoy the woodworking. But the reason I kept pointing it out was to see if you thought it was a good job. The same goes for the little side table for your deck I built at Christmas. That is sits now in the storage space beneath the house, I'm sure, was to keep it from the elements over the winter, but a little part of me is sad to see it hidden away. (I put the staining on it so it could withstand the weather, you know...)
Somehow you've always been the man who can fix anything that comes along and was able to care for your family with your own hands. I've always been intimidated and somewhat envious of that, and I've never believed I had the skills to accomplish the same. That's at least in part why I clung on to academics so strongly—not that I don't enjoy that kind of work immensely, but it was also where I could shine and though you are also intellectually talented, you followed a more practical course. (Through necessity, I know.) And you have always praised my work, as well as the steps I've taken to take care of my own family. I can't count the number of times you've claimed that I have taken on responsibility earlier and more thoroughly than you did. But I have never felt as competent as you. (Note how often the idea of competency keeps popping up in these posts.) I provide well enough, but I don't feel as though I personally tend to and support them in the same way you did us. Every time the plumbing goes south, or the car breaks down, or some appliance dies, I feel like I'm twelve all over again.
And it's not that you ever withheld this knowledge from me or didn't try to pass it on. I recall vividly the weekend mornings when you asked if I wanted to help change the oil in the car or stain the deck. But I was a teenager and it just didn't hold a lot of interest at the time. Sometimes you simply took care of things—so well, in fact, that I never felt the need to find out how to do it for myself. How frustrating that must have been on your end: trying to teach an uninterested kid about nature, or auto mechanics, or home repair while he was off playing games on the computer. I suppose it's nothing new in the course of families.
That's also almost certainly why I go on and on about what I've learned about hiking and camping: it's one area that I can tackle and feel at least as capable as you. My working with ultralight gear and taking long treks are an effort to prove to myself that I can do so on my own.
There's no blame here, just my musings on why these things keep resonating in me. (I'm not even certain I'm should post this, though I will anyway.) If I continue to pester you to comment on my projects, or go on and on about packing gear, at least now you'll have a sense of why. I appreciate all you did (and continue to do) for those of us blessed enough to be your progeny. I hope I can pass on some of the same values and desires for skillfulness you've impressed into me.
That step I built for the front door was needed, of course, and I do enjoy the woodworking. But the reason I kept pointing it out was to see if you thought it was a good job. The same goes for the little side table for your deck I built at Christmas. That is sits now in the storage space beneath the house, I'm sure, was to keep it from the elements over the winter, but a little part of me is sad to see it hidden away. (I put the staining on it so it could withstand the weather, you know...)
Somehow you've always been the man who can fix anything that comes along and was able to care for your family with your own hands. I've always been intimidated and somewhat envious of that, and I've never believed I had the skills to accomplish the same. That's at least in part why I clung on to academics so strongly—not that I don't enjoy that kind of work immensely, but it was also where I could shine and though you are also intellectually talented, you followed a more practical course. (Through necessity, I know.) And you have always praised my work, as well as the steps I've taken to take care of my own family. I can't count the number of times you've claimed that I have taken on responsibility earlier and more thoroughly than you did. But I have never felt as competent as you. (Note how often the idea of competency keeps popping up in these posts.) I provide well enough, but I don't feel as though I personally tend to and support them in the same way you did us. Every time the plumbing goes south, or the car breaks down, or some appliance dies, I feel like I'm twelve all over again.
And it's not that you ever withheld this knowledge from me or didn't try to pass it on. I recall vividly the weekend mornings when you asked if I wanted to help change the oil in the car or stain the deck. But I was a teenager and it just didn't hold a lot of interest at the time. Sometimes you simply took care of things—so well, in fact, that I never felt the need to find out how to do it for myself. How frustrating that must have been on your end: trying to teach an uninterested kid about nature, or auto mechanics, or home repair while he was off playing games on the computer. I suppose it's nothing new in the course of families.
That's also almost certainly why I go on and on about what I've learned about hiking and camping: it's one area that I can tackle and feel at least as capable as you. My working with ultralight gear and taking long treks are an effort to prove to myself that I can do so on my own.
There's no blame here, just my musings on why these things keep resonating in me. (I'm not even certain I'm should post this, though I will anyway.) If I continue to pester you to comment on my projects, or go on and on about packing gear, at least now you'll have a sense of why. I appreciate all you did (and continue to do) for those of us blessed enough to be your progeny. I hope I can pass on some of the same values and desires for skillfulness you've impressed into me.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Mechanical Ineptitude
As a note on the previous entry: yes, I will be attending the voiceover workshop, because my wife is the most wonderful wife in all of wifedom. I had a long chat with Sir Ben about God's guidance and His spirit, as well as some practical matters, and the Lord has provided the means by which to attend. So your prayers for a successful—and even miraculous—event are much appreciated. This could be a big thing, and I'm rather hoping it will be.
Meanwhile, our Subaru is falling apart. Again. I've always liked Subarus and their excellent maintenance records, but apparently we got the one that was cursed. I broke the "sway bar" (a stabilizer, apparently) on the front, and the speedometer's been out for a while, so we arranged to have those replaced. While the speedometer bits are being flown in by an anime character from the Land of the Rising Sun, the car decided that those expenses are not expensive enough and promptly stopped working altogether—most likely a starter problem. So today it was towed back to Vern's garage, where it must feel at least as at home as it does here. It probably misses its hydraulic lift and the warm gasoline-y smell of the garage and just wanted to visit again.
All this, though, points up my inability to actually do anything with the car, which in itself is only a symptom of my inability to take care of most anything practical. In the past year I've done a bit more outdoor work and some woodworking, so I'm feeling better on those fronts; my currently-under-construction nature identification study is making me feel more like a woodsman. But the car is still a mystery. I actually got out my manual and my copy of Auto Repair for Dummies (no, really) and girded my loins to look under the hood and see if there was anything I could do. I was able to figure out that it wasn't the battery. (The engine doesn't turn over at all when you turn the ignition—there's just a loud click, and all the electrical systems are working correctly.) I was hoping maybe it was just a loose wire to the starter or somesuch. Book in one hand, flashlight in the other, I peered beneath the hood to at least locate the parts described.
And, of course, the engine diagram doesn't remotely resemble the mechanical monstrosity squatting there in the housing. I found the ground wire from the battery to the frame, and the wire connecting to the fuses: after that, it disappeared into sealed compartments and a wilderness of unrecognizable madness. I felt rather like I did back in biology, spending all that time opening up my dissection frog only to find, instead of recognizable (and color coded!) organs nothing but a mass of frog glop.
On my very, very long list of minor desires, fairly high up is the one about taking an automotive class; maybe hands-on work would make me feel more competent, even if I can't fix everything. (Or even most things—Father John, the most auto-smart fellow I know, can't fix half the things on modern cars because he doesn't have the computer equipment for it.. which is a little scary, actually.) I can hear Liann out there, snickering and remembering that episode of Frasier in which he and Niles take the auto class and get kicked out. I'm not quite that dandified, thank you. (Though I imagine if Devin was taking the class with me we might be ejected, as we were so often back in junior high...)
I've resolved to change my own oil next time out (which ought to be quite soon, actually). Pray that I don't blow up the car in the process.
Meanwhile, our Subaru is falling apart. Again. I've always liked Subarus and their excellent maintenance records, but apparently we got the one that was cursed. I broke the "sway bar" (a stabilizer, apparently) on the front, and the speedometer's been out for a while, so we arranged to have those replaced. While the speedometer bits are being flown in by an anime character from the Land of the Rising Sun, the car decided that those expenses are not expensive enough and promptly stopped working altogether—most likely a starter problem. So today it was towed back to Vern's garage, where it must feel at least as at home as it does here. It probably misses its hydraulic lift and the warm gasoline-y smell of the garage and just wanted to visit again.
All this, though, points up my inability to actually do anything with the car, which in itself is only a symptom of my inability to take care of most anything practical. In the past year I've done a bit more outdoor work and some woodworking, so I'm feeling better on those fronts; my currently-under-construction nature identification study is making me feel more like a woodsman. But the car is still a mystery. I actually got out my manual and my copy of Auto Repair for Dummies (no, really) and girded my loins to look under the hood and see if there was anything I could do. I was able to figure out that it wasn't the battery. (The engine doesn't turn over at all when you turn the ignition—there's just a loud click, and all the electrical systems are working correctly.) I was hoping maybe it was just a loose wire to the starter or somesuch. Book in one hand, flashlight in the other, I peered beneath the hood to at least locate the parts described.
And, of course, the engine diagram doesn't remotely resemble the mechanical monstrosity squatting there in the housing. I found the ground wire from the battery to the frame, and the wire connecting to the fuses: after that, it disappeared into sealed compartments and a wilderness of unrecognizable madness. I felt rather like I did back in biology, spending all that time opening up my dissection frog only to find, instead of recognizable (and color coded!) organs nothing but a mass of frog glop.
On my very, very long list of minor desires, fairly high up is the one about taking an automotive class; maybe hands-on work would make me feel more competent, even if I can't fix everything. (Or even most things—Father John, the most auto-smart fellow I know, can't fix half the things on modern cars because he doesn't have the computer equipment for it.. which is a little scary, actually.) I can hear Liann out there, snickering and remembering that episode of Frasier in which he and Niles take the auto class and get kicked out. I'm not quite that dandified, thank you. (Though I imagine if Devin was taking the class with me we might be ejected, as we were so often back in junior high...)
I've resolved to change my own oil next time out (which ought to be quite soon, actually). Pray that I don't blow up the car in the process.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
How Can You Tell?
I'm confronted yet again by a dilemma that has cropped up with increasing regularity in the last year or two in my life: how does one tell the difference between a worthy risk and a foolhardy chance?
I've been trying to grapple with the biblical concept of trusting God—not on the intellectual level (at which I trust Him pretty much entirely, and any lack of trust on that end is entirely my own failure to keep Him in mind as I should), but on the level of action.
Do I trust God to do what He says He will? Yes, indeed. If God appeared in a cloud of light or spoke to me in a voice from the heavens and told me to hop to it, by golly I'd hop. And I'm striving to be more sensitive to the still, small voice that is the far more common method of His communication.
I also believe that He endows us with our desires and dreams that He might use them to His glory. (I know much of this is rehashing pretty common ideas and statements—forgive me. This is as much about me working through these ideas for myself as anything else.)I believe we have to be discerning as to which of our desires are worldly and self-serving, and those that are of His will. I attempt to offer up at least daily all my hopes, dreams, and goals, putting them figuratively on the altar and praying that He will test them in the holy fire, burning away the dross and refining that which is worthy into pure and honorable matter.
So then comes along some chance or idea, and my difficulty arises in trying to decide how to act on the moment. Case in point: for the last couple of weeks, I've been in some turmoil about feeling totally directionless, filled with giant dreams that seem so distant and dim that I can't even begin to see how to follow them. I've discussed the idea with Slater and know that my way clear is, as always, to keep my eyes on Him and not some end I hope to achieve. But that often leaves a question of how to act. Today, again, I prayed that He would show me some sign of where we were heading, not so much (I hope) because I don't believe He can bring great things about, but because without at least the rudiments of some path to follow, I end up just dithering, doing nothing at all (and that certainly feels like the wrong thing).
In my e-mail inbox this morning was an invitation to voiceover event with Pat Fraley (with whom I've worked several times before) about audio book work; during the course of the weekend, the attendees will work with several professionals from the industry and actually come out with an audio book demo tape. (My current one is pretty lackluster, produced on my own.)
I haven't thought about doing real audio work for some time—since the collapse of VoiceTrax (and my extra teaching gig over at Community Christian College), I've auditioned a couple of times and worked on that demo, all to no avail.
So the question rises: is this message landing in my inbox an answer to these prayers? Certainly, audio book work would help supplement any other kind of work I do (most notably, my writing); I enjoy the heck out of it and would love to do it as my "day job"; and Pat, at least, has seemed to suggest that it is something I could do well. But the workshop is quite expensive ($1400 for two days, which is actually pretty reasonable for the industry), and I've already poured several thousand dollars of our money into this thing that has gone nowhere. (Granted, I think the experience was valuable and helped me see a lot of things I hadn't before, but it certainly has not resulted in the work for which I was hoping.) Is the message just a nudge, to remind me of when I was more hopeful? Was it simply a case of unconnected timing? (I hesitate to use the words "coincidence" or "accident," because I don't believe there really are such things, but certainly it may be unconnected to any of these musings.) Was is just a door to get me to think about this issue once more? A temptation to spend a wad of money on a new fad that will, like its predecessors, fade away in a month or two?
If it didn't cost time or money, then I'd say, "Sure. Why not?" But it costs both. If it were just me, I'd say the same. But it's not—in addition to whatever "calling" I have, I also have a responsibility to my family, and blowing that kind of money on a pursuit essentially to make myself happy sounds from the outside like an enormous indulgence. Again, if I felt a clear, high command to do this, then the choice would be easy. Without such a call, I can't tell if this is an invitation or a temptation, a calling out or a drawing away, a leap of faith or a fall into selfishness.
Sheesh. Thinking is hard.
I've been trying to grapple with the biblical concept of trusting God—not on the intellectual level (at which I trust Him pretty much entirely, and any lack of trust on that end is entirely my own failure to keep Him in mind as I should), but on the level of action.
Do I trust God to do what He says He will? Yes, indeed. If God appeared in a cloud of light or spoke to me in a voice from the heavens and told me to hop to it, by golly I'd hop. And I'm striving to be more sensitive to the still, small voice that is the far more common method of His communication.
I also believe that He endows us with our desires and dreams that He might use them to His glory. (I know much of this is rehashing pretty common ideas and statements—forgive me. This is as much about me working through these ideas for myself as anything else.)I believe we have to be discerning as to which of our desires are worldly and self-serving, and those that are of His will. I attempt to offer up at least daily all my hopes, dreams, and goals, putting them figuratively on the altar and praying that He will test them in the holy fire, burning away the dross and refining that which is worthy into pure and honorable matter.
So then comes along some chance or idea, and my difficulty arises in trying to decide how to act on the moment. Case in point: for the last couple of weeks, I've been in some turmoil about feeling totally directionless, filled with giant dreams that seem so distant and dim that I can't even begin to see how to follow them. I've discussed the idea with Slater and know that my way clear is, as always, to keep my eyes on Him and not some end I hope to achieve. But that often leaves a question of how to act. Today, again, I prayed that He would show me some sign of where we were heading, not so much (I hope) because I don't believe He can bring great things about, but because without at least the rudiments of some path to follow, I end up just dithering, doing nothing at all (and that certainly feels like the wrong thing).
In my e-mail inbox this morning was an invitation to voiceover event with Pat Fraley (with whom I've worked several times before) about audio book work; during the course of the weekend, the attendees will work with several professionals from the industry and actually come out with an audio book demo tape. (My current one is pretty lackluster, produced on my own.)
I haven't thought about doing real audio work for some time—since the collapse of VoiceTrax (and my extra teaching gig over at Community Christian College), I've auditioned a couple of times and worked on that demo, all to no avail.
So the question rises: is this message landing in my inbox an answer to these prayers? Certainly, audio book work would help supplement any other kind of work I do (most notably, my writing); I enjoy the heck out of it and would love to do it as my "day job"; and Pat, at least, has seemed to suggest that it is something I could do well. But the workshop is quite expensive ($1400 for two days, which is actually pretty reasonable for the industry), and I've already poured several thousand dollars of our money into this thing that has gone nowhere. (Granted, I think the experience was valuable and helped me see a lot of things I hadn't before, but it certainly has not resulted in the work for which I was hoping.) Is the message just a nudge, to remind me of when I was more hopeful? Was it simply a case of unconnected timing? (I hesitate to use the words "coincidence" or "accident," because I don't believe there really are such things, but certainly it may be unconnected to any of these musings.) Was is just a door to get me to think about this issue once more? A temptation to spend a wad of money on a new fad that will, like its predecessors, fade away in a month or two?
If it didn't cost time or money, then I'd say, "Sure. Why not?" But it costs both. If it were just me, I'd say the same. But it's not—in addition to whatever "calling" I have, I also have a responsibility to my family, and blowing that kind of money on a pursuit essentially to make myself happy sounds from the outside like an enormous indulgence. Again, if I felt a clear, high command to do this, then the choice would be easy. Without such a call, I can't tell if this is an invitation or a temptation, a calling out or a drawing away, a leap of faith or a fall into selfishness.
Sheesh. Thinking is hard.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Notes on Madness
Three issues today:
- Last night we went to the "qualifier" for the Pinewood Derby for the Cub Scouts. Remember the Pinewood Derby? When your dad helped you by giving you a pocket knife and telling you not to cut yourself as you worked on your wee little block of wood? Well, forget it. Those days are gone. Not only can you buy the official car kit from the Boy Scouts, but you can buy an unending array of accessories, from tiny weights to a "cockpit kit" with a driver and race controls. I remember that almost all our cars were essentially wedges of wood with some paint; now many look like they were assembled by actual pit crews from fiberglass and titanium. I would be shocked to learn that an actual kid had a hand in the construction of some of those space-age marvels. In the official rules I read with amusement that some troops have a separate competition for adults—now I know why. Good gravy.
- If you have a daughter like Born Dancin', and you let her sit on your shoulders, and you are drinking a Perrier with lemon, and she asks for some, be very careful as you decide whether to comply. All was going well as we took turns taking sips, until suddenly I was taking a bath. (A "shower" suggests far too little liquid; I experienced a downpour.) My shouts of shock and horror only brought her to empty the bottle and giggle. Once I had her on the ground and stood dripping, I could only join her in laughing, 'cause what else are you going to do?
- I'm in the midst of a mountain of grading, which makes me punchy in the first place. Then throw on some bizarre and painful student papers, and I teeter quite near the edge of sanity. Never mind that a student just identified the author Simon Garfinkle as "Simpson Garginkle" (and the fact that that name made me giggle as long as it did is no good sign): I recently stood witness to a paper so crammed with awkward and confusing phrasing that I nearly wept. I beheld with awe the rare and terrifying triple mixed metaphor, as follows:
"Knowing he is closing in on his prey, the predator eases into a deadly game of cat and mouse played by many as they weave their deadly web of malicious intrigue before the final moment when the trap is finally sprung."
That may actually be four metaphors, but I gave her some slack and assumed that the nameless "predator" was the later-mentioned cat...
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Herblore
Back somewhere in the misty past of either my graduate school work at Eastern Washington or in the early days of teaching, I came across an essay which suggested that one of the things most useful to keeping a child's interest in the wilderness fresh is to know about it yourself—knowing the names of animals, identifying trees and flowers, and recognizing animal tracks shows that you care about the subject and avoids the frustration of the constant questioning: "Dad, what's that tree?" "I don't know, son; some kind of pine, I think."
Going back even further (and more geekily), one of the minor bits of The Lord of the Rings trilogy I was always enthralled with was Aragorn's knowledge of herbs and plants, as part and parcel of his awesome mastery of all things nature-y. The little exchange between Aragorn and Ioleth in Minas Tirith when he is looking for athelas to cure Eowyn and Merry of their hurt suffered in killing the Lord of the Nazgul (see? I told you it would be geeky...) stuck with me: her not knowing of the plant and suggesting she could speak with the herb-master; he suggesting she may have heard of it as "kingsfoil"—there was something in the knowledge and naming that kindled a desire for knowledge and woodcraft.
Of course, I developed none of those skills. I think at least part of my reawakening to the world of hiking and the outdoors is a drive to gain the mastery that I never did back in Boy Scouts. And it frustrates me no end that as I'm wandering about in the woods, I can't identify anything beyond "pine" or "oak, probably." I've looked at a lot of guides, but some seem terribly dense and contain much extra information (how likely is it that I'll need to know about a sub-genus of creeping vine found only in some remote corner of the Louisiana bayou?); besides, they're often extremely mass-ful for their size and therefore not very good for backpacking. Some are so technical that I'm afraid I won't be able to figure out anything in the field from them; others seem incomplete.
So I decided that something small and local would be a good place to start. A kind pair of folks gave me a $25 gift certificate for the little McCabe & Co. Booksellers in Crestline (with a little note about Luddites and fighting corporate power...), and the other day I picked up two small guides from the San Bernardino Mountains Land Trust: Trees of the San Bernardino Mountains and Wildflowers of the San Bernardino Mountains. They're quite small and though they cover a limited range, they have the basics and I'm happy to support a local cause. With their help, I discovered that the two trees flanking my parents' house aren't just the "pine" and the "oak," but a Ponderosa Pine and a Canyon Live Oak (probably).
The big tree in which I sit when I'm up at Onyx Summit above Big Bear isn't, as I had thought, a pinyon pine, but a Western Juniper. What the little guide didn't tell me was that this was a the australis variant of the Juniperus occidentalis, aka the Sierra Juniper. That's the kind of thing I want to know!
Which brings me back full circle to names and secret names. I like knowing that it's a Sierra Juniper; the name means more than just "Western Juniper" (though knowing its scientific name is "Juniperus occidentalis var. austrails pleases me more than it should). Who wouldn't prefer "False Hemlock" over "Bigcone Douglas-Fir" (Pseudotsuga macrocarpa)? (The hyphen in "Douglas-Fir," by the way, is included because it isn't really a fir tree at all.)
At any rate, I'm hoping to start identifying more growth around our house so that when the boys ask, I'll have an answer: they (like I) may not remember the actual names for the phenomena that their dad taught them, but hopefully they'll remember (as I do) that their dad knows the answer should they need it.
Going back even further (and more geekily), one of the minor bits of The Lord of the Rings trilogy I was always enthralled with was Aragorn's knowledge of herbs and plants, as part and parcel of his awesome mastery of all things nature-y. The little exchange between Aragorn and Ioleth in Minas Tirith when he is looking for athelas to cure Eowyn and Merry of their hurt suffered in killing the Lord of the Nazgul (see? I told you it would be geeky...) stuck with me: her not knowing of the plant and suggesting she could speak with the herb-master; he suggesting she may have heard of it as "kingsfoil"—there was something in the knowledge and naming that kindled a desire for knowledge and woodcraft.
Of course, I developed none of those skills. I think at least part of my reawakening to the world of hiking and the outdoors is a drive to gain the mastery that I never did back in Boy Scouts. And it frustrates me no end that as I'm wandering about in the woods, I can't identify anything beyond "pine" or "oak, probably." I've looked at a lot of guides, but some seem terribly dense and contain much extra information (how likely is it that I'll need to know about a sub-genus of creeping vine found only in some remote corner of the Louisiana bayou?); besides, they're often extremely mass-ful for their size and therefore not very good for backpacking. Some are so technical that I'm afraid I won't be able to figure out anything in the field from them; others seem incomplete.
So I decided that something small and local would be a good place to start. A kind pair of folks gave me a $25 gift certificate for the little McCabe & Co. Booksellers in Crestline (with a little note about Luddites and fighting corporate power...), and the other day I picked up two small guides from the San Bernardino Mountains Land Trust: Trees of the San Bernardino Mountains and Wildflowers of the San Bernardino Mountains. They're quite small and though they cover a limited range, they have the basics and I'm happy to support a local cause. With their help, I discovered that the two trees flanking my parents' house aren't just the "pine" and the "oak," but a Ponderosa Pine and a Canyon Live Oak (probably).
The big tree in which I sit when I'm up at Onyx Summit above Big Bear isn't, as I had thought, a pinyon pine, but a Western Juniper. What the little guide didn't tell me was that this was a the australis variant of the Juniperus occidentalis, aka the Sierra Juniper. That's the kind of thing I want to know!
Which brings me back full circle to names and secret names. I like knowing that it's a Sierra Juniper; the name means more than just "Western Juniper" (though knowing its scientific name is "Juniperus occidentalis var. austrails pleases me more than it should). Who wouldn't prefer "False Hemlock" over "Bigcone Douglas-Fir" (Pseudotsuga macrocarpa)? (The hyphen in "Douglas-Fir," by the way, is included because it isn't really a fir tree at all.)
At any rate, I'm hoping to start identifying more growth around our house so that when the boys ask, I'll have an answer: they (like I) may not remember the actual names for the phenomena that their dad taught them, but hopefully they'll remember (as I do) that their dad knows the answer should they need it.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
A Small Sigh
I promise not to go on and on about the Pacific Crest Trail this year, but today at least a few of the first hikers are starting out from Campo, California, to begin the long walk. They should have beautiful weather for it—mid-fifties to begin with, a little rain in the evening, then a week of 60's and 70's to get through that section of the desert.
Traditionally, hikers have started the trail in late April and early May. An earlier start might bring you to the Sierras while the snow pack was still quite deep; any later, and the desert would be so hot and dry that you'd not make it to the Sierras in the first place. However, the last few years have seen reduced Sierra snow, so more folks are setting out earlier in the year.
It's kind of a fun time to be reading online journals; many hikers keep their updated fairly regularly, e-mailing from towns along the trail, so I can kind of live vicariously through their experiences. You can check out the journals on the official Pacific Crest Trail Association web site, and a whole lot more over at Trail Journals (as well as journals from dozens of other long trails in the US).
On that note, I had a few ideas in my continued search for a trail name (Traditionally, you'd wait for other hikers to bestow you with a name, but then I'd end up with a moniker like "Two Buckets" or something ridiculous). Beowulf was already taken, and doesn't really fit me all that well. Something like "Aragorn" would be fun, but then people might expect a lot more of me than I can deliver ("Aragorn, eh? How many Hobbits have passed this way lately, huh?") and I'd be the biggest geek ever. I was also hoping for something with a spiritual connotation, since part of my PCT hike is about the spiritual journey. Other thoughts:
Grey Pilgrim: A bit unwieldy; I had thought of just "Pilgrim," but someone already had that one.
Templar: I would have loved this one before all of the Holy Grail conspiracy nuts got hold of it. Now I'd have to explain that I wasn't really part of the Prieure de Scion or seeking to keep the secret of the "true" bloodline of Jesus.
Errant: So far, this seems the most suitable. I'm hoping it conveys both the medieval sense of journeying or wandering, and also the idea that I'm usually wrong about most things.
I'm open for other suggestions, and though "El Mysterioso Blanco" is how I'm known in many South American countries, I can't use that because (a) la Policia are still looking for that man, and (b) it is too long.
Traditionally, hikers have started the trail in late April and early May. An earlier start might bring you to the Sierras while the snow pack was still quite deep; any later, and the desert would be so hot and dry that you'd not make it to the Sierras in the first place. However, the last few years have seen reduced Sierra snow, so more folks are setting out earlier in the year.
It's kind of a fun time to be reading online journals; many hikers keep their updated fairly regularly, e-mailing from towns along the trail, so I can kind of live vicariously through their experiences. You can check out the journals on the official Pacific Crest Trail Association web site, and a whole lot more over at Trail Journals (as well as journals from dozens of other long trails in the US).
On that note, I had a few ideas in my continued search for a trail name (Traditionally, you'd wait for other hikers to bestow you with a name, but then I'd end up with a moniker like "Two Buckets" or something ridiculous). Beowulf was already taken, and doesn't really fit me all that well. Something like "Aragorn" would be fun, but then people might expect a lot more of me than I can deliver ("Aragorn, eh? How many Hobbits have passed this way lately, huh?") and I'd be the biggest geek ever. I was also hoping for something with a spiritual connotation, since part of my PCT hike is about the spiritual journey. Other thoughts:
Grey Pilgrim: A bit unwieldy; I had thought of just "Pilgrim," but someone already had that one.
Templar: I would have loved this one before all of the Holy Grail conspiracy nuts got hold of it. Now I'd have to explain that I wasn't really part of the Prieure de Scion or seeking to keep the secret of the "true" bloodline of Jesus.
Errant: So far, this seems the most suitable. I'm hoping it conveys both the medieval sense of journeying or wandering, and also the idea that I'm usually wrong about most things.
I'm open for other suggestions, and though "El Mysterioso Blanco" is how I'm known in many South American countries, I can't use that because (a) la Policia are still looking for that man, and (b) it is too long.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Going Green
Well, we're not actually becoming total hippies, but for some reason lately I've been struck by how much stuff we go through in a week and how much more we could do environment-wise.
The kick started, I think, because of Joanna's dieting to deal with health issues. We started eating a lot more organic foods, and it seems natural to move from trying to eliminate a lot of artificial chemicals in our food to eliminating waste and/or being more efficient. On top of that, I'm doing more work in the yard, and that always makes me want to take care of things a bit more carefully. And on top of that, my reawakening to the world of hiking in the last year or two has brought all kinds of simmering environmental issues to the forefront of my brain.
This is apropos of nothing, and I'm sure it makes just riveting reading, but I just bought a couple of new containers for recycling at home yesterday. (We do a pretty good job of sorting out glass and plastic, but we haven't been good about paper—so we have a new bin just for that.) And today, I'll be looking for a composting bin for all our organic waste. I actually built one a few years ago, but it has really open sides and, at least in our area, animals just came and used it as a buffet. (We're fairly certain that's where our in-house population of mice came from.) And in our climate, the stuff inside just dried out. An enclosed, dark-colored bin is called for. What we'll use the resulting compost on, I'm not quite sure, though it would be nice to have more of a garden in front of our house.
Again, as I'm typing this, I'm struck by just how non-interesting this must be from the outside. If I didn't have grading, I might launch into a discussion of our responsibility as "stewards" of the Earth and all kinds of fun things, but time does not so allow. Feel free to engage in that discussion in the comments for me.
Next time you see me, I'll probably be wearing tie-dye and smoking weed on my commune. Que sera, sera.
The kick started, I think, because of Joanna's dieting to deal with health issues. We started eating a lot more organic foods, and it seems natural to move from trying to eliminate a lot of artificial chemicals in our food to eliminating waste and/or being more efficient. On top of that, I'm doing more work in the yard, and that always makes me want to take care of things a bit more carefully. And on top of that, my reawakening to the world of hiking in the last year or two has brought all kinds of simmering environmental issues to the forefront of my brain.
This is apropos of nothing, and I'm sure it makes just riveting reading, but I just bought a couple of new containers for recycling at home yesterday. (We do a pretty good job of sorting out glass and plastic, but we haven't been good about paper—so we have a new bin just for that.) And today, I'll be looking for a composting bin for all our organic waste. I actually built one a few years ago, but it has really open sides and, at least in our area, animals just came and used it as a buffet. (We're fairly certain that's where our in-house population of mice came from.) And in our climate, the stuff inside just dried out. An enclosed, dark-colored bin is called for. What we'll use the resulting compost on, I'm not quite sure, though it would be nice to have more of a garden in front of our house.
Again, as I'm typing this, I'm struck by just how non-interesting this must be from the outside. If I didn't have grading, I might launch into a discussion of our responsibility as "stewards" of the Earth and all kinds of fun things, but time does not so allow. Feel free to engage in that discussion in the comments for me.
Next time you see me, I'll probably be wearing tie-dye and smoking weed on my commune. Que sera, sera.