Digging Out

Still working on that ol' grading. I'll have to give some thoughts to Ornery's Wife's question from my last post. It's a toughie.

Meanwhile, because Eowyn posted a song on her blog, I thought I'd do the same here. Behold the delight that is "The Future Soon," by Jonathan Coulton as posted on YouTube and animated using World of Warcraft machinima by Spiffworld:



This was far too close to many of my junior high fantasies. Oh, if only Amy Farrell could have known all that I had planned, maybe she wouldn't have been so cruel...

I was put onto these videos by Frodo; if you enjoyed that, make sure to check out some of his others. I particularly recommend "Skullcrusher Mountain", "re: Your Brains", "Creepy Doll", and "Chiron Beta Prime". Great stuff.

Also, thought they're odd and disturbing, I can't help laughing at the entire series of videos under the title of The Potter Puppet Pals, which I was introduced to via this strange video:



There are several more, all of which are well worth wasting your time on.

But enough of time wasting for me! Back to grading!

Opportunity, Opinion, and Oath

Three things today:

1. Thanks to the generous donations of several wonderful folks, I will be attending the Audio Publishers Association conferences at the end of this month; in fact, due to their pricing schedule, I am now an official member of the APA as a voice talent (so I can attend their swanky mixers in New York someday). Many thanks to those who sent their support and prayers my way; now I need prayer that great things will come of it, and that I'll have the courage to actually (gulp!) talk to people...


2. I know I ramble on here a good bit about teaching and all its tribulations. If you want a real look at what the job is like, I cannot recommend enough reading this article, sent to me by an instructor friend who knows whereof he speaks. Save for the fact that I'm not an adjunct instructor (thank you, Lord), this article is so eerily on target that it's like "Professor X" crawled inside my life... I had a "Ms. L" just this semester, in fact. And I can't shake that the professor's thoughts on universal college attendance are dead on.


3. My finals were given last Friday, so though the mountain of grading still looms over me, I am at last free of the need to actually instruct for some time. More important, this opens up my schedule enough that I can finally write again. I am vowing to do so every day, because I need to do so. I am excited and worried all over again, almost as though I was starting over from scratch, save that I've got a good 2/3 of the novel already laid down. Discipline is my watchword.

Simple Things

First off, if you like Veggie Tales or are interested in producing Christian media content, or you just want a good read, go check out Phil Vischer's website. I wandered over there yesterday (prompted by something I cannot remember) because I've always wondered about those rumors I'd heard about Phil and Big Idea Productions going bankrupt and lawsuits with distributors and such. Phil has a thorough description of all those things (somewhat long, but very engagingly written—apparently he wrote a book, Me, Myself, and Bob, which details the experience more fully), as well as news on what he's up to now, the state of Christian media in general, and other interesting oddities.

While reading his post about what he's working on, he mentioned an idea that is very popular and shows up in all kinds of places: finding your calling. And, of course, I'm always talking on about calling on here. For whatever reason, the very simple way he talked about his own journey struck home to me (even though it is basic to a lot of programs—heck, even LGCC had their SHAPE class that covered the same thing). In two paragraphs, he talked about his own burden (what he had a heart to do) and his gifting (what talents he had). That intersection, he suggested, was his ministry.

It can take me a long time to figure things out, I know, but that clicked in my head.

So I share just my jottings in response to that (very rough and off the top of my head). I don't know what they mean, or they point toward exactly, or anything, but the rumination is going on.

What is my burden?

I want to show that God is relevant and satisfyingly complex in the worlds of artistry and academics. The art and writing made by His people, for His people and the world at large, can be of a quality as great or greater than that produced by the secular world. I want people to be swept up into stories and experiences larger than themselves and to be given hope and delight and vision and passion and encouragement on their journey.

What is my gifting?

Writing. Storytelling. Creativity. Research. World-building. Humor. Academics.

That's all I've got right now.

Man and Animal

It was a crazy weekend, full of family events (Joanna's folks on Friday, the new Andy and Christina Glenn's wedding on Saturday, and my parents and grandparents on Sunday. (And you haven't lived until you've seen my grandparents bowl on the Wii, or mom nearly wetting herself laughing at my grandparents bowl on the Wii.)

The "Man" in the title refers to my dump-running escapade on Saturday. The Hazardous Waste Disposal people were up at Heap's Peak on Saturday, so I figured I needed to run over all that oil I drained out of the cars last month. That turned into an all-day event of emptying out the van, loading it up with all the wood from our recent home projects (removing the old gas wall heater, replacing the back door, replacing the toilet in the boys' bathroom, tearing down the old, useless compost bin), cutting the old back door, unused closet doors, and broken tables in half with a chainsaw (whoo hoo!), dragging out the pounds and pounds of shards from our glass patio table that shattered in the winds this past winter, and a few cubic yards of other junk, and hauling it away. It was good to get the yard and back porch cleared out, and though it took no skill at all, it was sort of empowering anyway.

The "Animal" part comes from the menagerie that passed through our yard this weekend. I came home from the two-hour cleaning of the van after the dump run to see this:

Yes, indeed: a three-foot tall peahen was strutting through our front yard and honking at me.

We called up the animal rescue folks and were contemplating how to catch a bird that big (a bed sheet and a trash can were being considered) when we discovered that it in fact lives with our neighbor. I can't say he "owns" the bird because it adopted him. He keeps chickens under his deck, and one day about a year ago the peahen just showed up and has been living with them ever since. Apparently, some folks in Lake Arrowhead keep them around their grounds for atmosphere (driving the neighbors crazy); my guess is this is an escapee. Why she never showed up in our yard before, or even made a noise we heard, I cannot say.

Then, on Saturday night, our bear came through. (I don't know which of the half-dozen bears we've seen in the past few years it might be, but we feel a sense of ownership.) Of course, he dumped over all our garbage cans and spread the trash far and wide; this time, he also visited our new compost bin, knocking it a few feet off its base and emptying the thing out. (I can imagine a bear eating some of the leftovers, but even most of the potting soil was gone—do bears eat dirt regularly?)

Isn't all that interesting? It was to me, so therefore I assume it was for you, too. You're welcome.

Swimming for the Surface

I meant to post yesterday, but between getting back into the swing of things after a weekend away, being under a pile of grading, and having the Raingutter Regatta last night, it just didn't happen. I've been wiped out enough to fall asleep while trying to put Born Dancin' down, which has been unfortunate, though I suppose I needed the sleep.

The weekend went pretty well. I hadn't had much real contact with—and certainly no classes on—the audiobook industry for nearly three years, and a huge amount has changed in the industry. The upshot was good and bad news (mostly good for me): because of the upsurge in downloadable audiobooks (the industry's growing at about 35% a year, compared to about 6% for traditional audio), fees paid to readers are down—but the number of readers needed is increasing rapidly. We had much talk of the industry and the changing role of the narrators in the business; we also got to get into the studio to record under 3 different directors. I ended up doing trimmed-down versions of the earlier-listed excerpts from Thomas the Rhymer (directed by Pat, who helped me work out the voice separation and counseled me that it was a "girl book"), East of Eden (directed by Hillary, who liked it and could make me flatten out my read so that Steinbeck is the one who came through, not me), and Buttercup's Baby (directed by Stephan Rudnicki, who's a huge name in the industry and by far the most direct and uncompromising director we had, but who liked my reading). In a week or two I should get the edited demo from Pat and Pippin avows to put it up on my website so y'all can take a listen. No job offers were forthcoming (though I'm still praying on that score), but it was an encouraging time. Now I'm just trying to figure out how to get out to the Audio Publishers Association Conference at the end of this month (which is a big deal and a great place to make contacts, and only shows up in LA once every few years, but which costs an arm and at least part of a leg to get in).

Sadly, now I must return to my actual work. Two weeks until the end of the semester (public school teachers, don't hate me) and all the joy (at the short duration) and pain (at the vast workload before it's all over) that brings. I'm off to jump on that right now.

Choices, Choices

So here they are: in my typical overwrought fashion, I have managed to find 30 excerpts that might be possible for this upcoming weekend.

And, of course, I am only allowed 4.

It's your chance to cast your vote—I'd love to hear which of these were most interesting to folks outside of my head. (Joanna, for instance, found some of my early potential choices less than interesting. Whatever.) I've marked my current favorites with a "†", but I'm not married to them. Some of these are probably crazy, but all of them are hopefully interesting. And yes, these are edited and reworked; for the demo, that is acceptable. If I've eviscerated your favorite piece of prose, I apologize, but I can't go over 60 seconds. Think of it as a movie trailer, but for a book.

A couple of those guidelines for the selections:

1. At least one should be first-person, and at least one should be third-person;


2. One should feature back-and-forth dialogue;


3. I'd like one non-fiction piece, but probably not more than one (The non-fiction pieces are at the end, beginning with Tolkien's "On Fairy-Stories");


4. If you're tossed up between a British piece and an American one, go American;


5. The excerpt need not be a self-contained story, but it should be engaging and make you want to hear more.

List your favorites in the comments by about 5pm tomorrow (or later today, Friday, May 2, by the time I post this), and you may get a say in my future career!

Thanks in advance, all.

• From East of Eden, by John Steinbeck:†
  

  He could hear her moving quietly about behind the door. A drawer was opened, and the thought leaped in him—she's going to stay.
  
  When her voice came, it was so near that he jerked his head back. “Dear,” she said softly, “I didn't know you would take it so. I'm sorry, Adam.”
  
  His hand trembled, trying to turn the key, and it fell out on the floor. He pushed the door open. She stood three feet away. In her right hand she held his .44 Colt, and the black hole in the barrel pointed at him. He saw the hammer was back.
  
  She shot him. The heavy slug struck him in the shoulder. The flash and roar smothered him, and he staggered back and fell to the floor. She moved slowly toward him, cautiously, as she might toward a wounded animal. Her eyes inspected him impersonally. Then she tossed the pistol on the floor beside him and walked out of the house.



• From Mythago Wood, by Robert Holdstock:†
  

  Christian crouched back down in the ditch. “It's part boar, part man, elements of other beasts from the wildwood. But it's the old man's mythago. Oh God, how he must have hated us to have imposed such terror on the thing.”
  
  A moment later, he said, “When you run, run for the edge. Don't stop. And when you get out of the wood, don't come back. There is no way out for me, now. I'm trapped in this wood as surely as if I were a mythago myself. Don't come back here, Steve.”
  
  “Chris—” I began, but it was too late. He had thrown back the covering and was running. Moments later the enormous shape passed overhead, one huge, black foot landing just inches from me and passing by in a split second. But as I scrambled from the hole and began to run I glanced back and the creature, hearing me, glanced back too; and in that instant, I saw the face that had been painted across the blackened features of the boar.
  
  The Urscumug opened its mouth to roar, and my father seemed to leer at me.



• From Buttercup's Baby, by William Goldman:†
  

  The country of Despair was hard to find on the map, not because cartographers didn't know of its existence, but because when they visited to measure its borders, they became so depressed they began to drink and question everything, most notably why would anyone want to be a stupid cartographer? Since wars were always changing boundaries, why bother? There grew up, then, a gentleman's agreement among mapmakers to keep the place secret, lest tourists flock there and die.
  
  Everything about Despair was depressing. Nothing grew in the ground and what fell from the skies did not provoke happy conversation. The entire country was damp and dank, and why the locals did not all flee was not only a good question, it was the only question. Locals talked about nothing else. “Why don't we move?” husbands would say to wives, and wives would answer, “God, I don't know, let's,” and children would jump and shout, “Hooray hooray, we're out of here,” but then nothing would happen. There was comfort in knowing that things couldn't get any worse. “We have endured everything,” locals would tell themselves. “Whereas if we pick up and go, say, to Paris, we would get gout and be insulted by Parisians all day.”



• From “Some of Us Have Been Threatening Our Friend Colby,” by Donald Barthelme:
  

  Some of us have been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he'd gone too far, so we decided to hang him. Colby argued that just because he had gone too far did not mean he should be subjected to hanging. Going too far, he said, was something everybody did sometimes. We didn't pay much attention to this argument. We asked him what sort of music he would like played at his hanging. He said he'd think about it but it would take him a while to decide. I pointed out that we'd have to know soon, because Howard, who is a conductor, would have to hire and rehearse the musicians and he couldn't begin until he knew what the music was going to be. Colby said he'd always been fond of Ives' Fourth Symphony. Howard said that this was a “delaying tactic” and that everybody knew that Ives was almost impossible to perform and would involve weeks of rehearsal, and that the size of the orchestra and chorus would put us way over the music budget. “Be reasonable,” he said to Colby. Colby said he's try to think of something a little less exacting.



• From “The Blue Flame of Vengeance,” by Robert Howard:
  

  The man's face was long, smooth-shaven and of a strange dark pallor which together with the sunken cheeks lent him an almost corpse-like appearance—until one looked at the eyes. These gleamed with vibrant life and dynamic vitality, pent deep and ironly controlled.
  
  The stranger's clothing was severely plain. His hat was a black slouch, featherless. From heel to neck he was clad in close-fitting garments of sombre hue, unrelieved by any ornament or jewel, only broken by a wide silk sash of Oriental workmanship knotted about his waist. Its color was a sinister virulent green, and from it projected a dark hilt and the black butts of two heavy pistols.
  
  “How came you here?” asked Jack bluntly. “And how is it that I saw you not until you spoke?”
  
  “I came here as all honest men come, young sir,” Solomon Kane answered in a deep voice. “on my two legs—as for the other: men engrossed in their own affairs see neither their friends—to their shame—nor their foes—to their harm.”



• From Pyramids, by Terry Pratchett:
  

  Teppic's mother had been a pleasant woman and as self-centered as a gyroscope. She'd liked cats. She didn't just venerate them—everyone in the kingdom did that—but she actually liked them, too. It was traditional in river kingdoms to approve of cats, but he suspected that usually the animals in question were graceful, stately creatures; his mother's cats were small, spitting, yellow-eyed maniacs.
  
  His father, the pharaoh, spent a lot of time worrying about the kingdom and occasionally declaring that he was a seagull, although this was probably from general forgetfulness. Teppic had often speculated about his own conception, since his parents were rarely in the same frame of reference, let alone the same state of mind.
  
  But it had apparently happened and he was left to bring himself up, mildly hindered and occasionally enlivened by a succession of tutors. The ones hired by his father were best, especially on those days when he was flying as high as he could, and for one glorious winter Teppic had as his tutor an elderly ibis poacher who had in fact wandered into the royal gardens in search of a stray arrow.



• From Ivanhoe, by Walter Scott:
  

  The new champion struck the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. All stood astonished at his presumption, but none more than the redoubted knight whom he had thus defied to mortal combat.
  
  “Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the Templar, “and have you heard mass this morning, that you peril your life so frankly?”
  
  “I am fitter to meet death than thou art,” answered the Disinherited Knight.
  
  “Then take your place in the lists,” said Bois-Guilbert, “and look your last upon the sun; for this night thou shalt sleep in paradise.”
  
  “Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disinherited Knight; “I advise thee to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for by my honor you will need both.”
  
  The trumpets no sooner gave the signal than the champions charged with the speed of lightning, and met with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed that both knights had fallen, for the shock had made each horse recoil backward upon its haunches. But the riders recovered their steeds and each received a fresh lance from the attendants.



• From Swordspoint, by Ellen Kushner:
  

  There is no one behind the broken window; only eddies of snow drift across the bare floorboards. The owners of the coats of arms have long since abandoned the claims to the house they crest, and moved up to the Hill. No king rules there any more, for good or ill. From the Hill, Riverside is a tiny splotch between two riverbanks, an unsavory quarter in the prosperous city. The people who live there now like to think of themselves as evil, but they're really no worse than anyone else. And already this morning more than one drop of blood has been shed.
  
  The blood lies now on the snow of a formal winter garden, now trampled and muddy. A man lies dead, the snow filling up the hollows of his eyes, while another man is twisted up, grunting, sweating frog-ponds on the frozen earth, waiting for someone to come and help him. The hero of this little tableau has just vaulted the garden wall and is running like mad into the darkness while the darkness lasts.



• From Thomas the Rhymer, by Ellen Kushner:†
  

  “I am the Queen of Elfland, Thomas.”
  
  “I know,” I heard myself say, my voice thin and tinny in my ears.
  
  “I am not made for your earthly lust,” she said, her white teeth sharp, her eyes cruel with pity. “You were best turn now and walk away.”
  
  I took a step towards her. Her horse was calm and still, cropping grass. She leaned low over the saddle bow.
  
  “Will you have one kiss of me? It will be dearly bought.” Light danced on the sweetness of her lips. “Dare to kiss my lips, and know that your body follows.”
  
  I smiled crookedly, the breath hard in my throat. “That is to be hoped for, is it not?”
  
  “Is it? You will be mine, Thomas. Let me be sure of you.”
  
  I pulled her to my mouth, and tasted fruit and flesh undreamed of. She quenched my thirst, and at the same time filled me with hunger I knew would never leave me. For just one moment my mind cleared as I thought, I am lost.



• From The Gunslinger, by Stephen King:
  

  The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
  
  The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions. It was white and blinding and waterless and without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for once the drifted track that had cut its way through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway. Coaches and buckas had followed it. The world had moved on since then. The world had emptied.



• From “On Fairy-Stories,” by J.R.R. Tolkien:
  

  I propose to speak about fairy-stories, though I am aware that this is a rash adventure. Faërie is a perilous land, and in it are pitfalls for the unwary and dungeons for the overbold. And overbold I may be accounted, for though I have been a lover of fairy-stories since I learned to read, I have not studied them professionally. I have been hardly more than a wandering explorer in the land, full of wonder but not of information.
  
  The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. In that realm a man may, perhaps, count himself fortunate to have wandered, but its very richness and strangeness tie the tongue of the traveler who would report them. And while he is there it is dangerous for him to ask too many questions, lest the gates should be shut and the keys be lost.



• From “On Fairy-Stories,” by J.R.R. Tolkien:
  

  Fantasy is a natural activity. It certainly does not destroy or even insult Reason; and it does not either blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of, scientific veracity. On the contrary. The keener and clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make. If ever men could not perceive truth, Fantasy would languish until they were cured.
  
  Fantasy can, of course, be carried to excess. It can be ill done, be put to evil uses, even delude the minds out of which it came. But of what human thing in this fallen world is that not true? Men have conceived not only of elves, but they have imagined gods, and worshipped them, even worshipped those most deformed by their authors' own evil. But they have made false gods out of other materials: their notions, their banners, their monies; even their sciences and their social and economic theories have demanded human sacrifice. Fantasy remains a human right: we make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made in the image and likeness of a Maker.



• From No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty:
  

  When I actually sat down to write my first novel back in 1999, I discovered that my ideas about novel writing were woefully mistaken. You don't need a plot before you write a novel, nor do you need an evocative sense of place or a winsome, engaging cast. You don't need coffee.
  
  What you really need is a secret weapon.
  
  You need a superpowered, diabolical device that will transform you into a bastion of literary accomplishment. And I'm happy to report that this implement is just waiting for you to pick it up.
  
  Without hyperbole, I can say that this tool is the most awesome catalyst that has ever been unleashed on the worlds of art and commerce. Nearly every beautiful and useful thing you've ever touched or witnessed was born in its mighty forge. It's portable, affordable, and nonpolluting.
  
  It's also invisible.
  
  What you need to write a novel, of course, is a deadline.



• From “A Reflection on White Geese,” by Barry Lopez:
  

  The staging of white geese at Tule Lake in northern California in November is one of the most imposing—and dependable—wildlife spectacles in the world. At first one thinks of it only as a phenomenon of numbers—it's been possible in recent years to see as many as three hundred thousand geese here at one time. What a visitor finds startling, however, is the great synchronicity of their movements: the long skeins of white unfurl brilliantly against blue skies and dark cumulonimbus thunderheads, birds riding the towering wash of winds. They rise from the water or fall from the sky with balletic grace, with a booming noise like rattled sheets of corrugated tin, with a furious and unmitigated energy. It is the life of them that takes such hold of you.



• From “A Presentation of Whales,” by Barry Lopez:
  

  The sperm whale is the most awesome creature of the open seas. Imagine a forty-five-year-old male fifty feet long, a slim, shiny black animal with a white jaw and marbled belly cutting the surface of green ocean water at twenty knots. Sunlight sparkles in rivulets running off folds in its corrugated back. At fifty tons it is the largest carnivore on earth. Its massive head, a third of its body length, is scarred with the beak, sucker, and claw marks of giant squid, snatched out of subterranean canyons a mile below, in a region without light, and brought writhing to the surface. Imagine a four-hundred pound heart the size of a chest of drawers driving five gallons of blood at a stroke through its aorta: a meal of forty salmon moving slowly down twelve-hundred feet of intestine; producing sounds more shrill than we can hear—like children shouting on a distant playground.



• From “Against Abolishing Christianity,” by Jonathan Swift:
  

  Another Advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity, is, the clear Gain of one Day in Seven, which is now entirely lost; beside the Loss to the Publick of so many stately Structures now in the Hands of the Clergy; which might be converted into Theatres, Exchanges, Market-houses, and other publick Edifices.
  
  I readily own there hath been an old Custom, for People to assemble in the Churches every Sunday, and that Shops are still frequently shut; in order, as it is conceived, to preserve the Memory of that antient Practice; but how this can prove a Hindrance to Business, or Pleasure, is hard to imagine. Are not the Taverns and Coffee-Houses open? Is not that the chief Day for Traders to sum up the Accounts of the Week; and for Lawyers to prepare their Briefs? But I would fain know how it can be pretended, that the Churches are misapplied. Where are more Appointments and Rendezvouzes of Gallantry? Where more Meetings for Business? Where more Bargains driven of all Sorts? And where so many Conveniences, or Incitements to sleep?

EDIT: So I combed through ditched all those choices that were unworkable, wouldn't be appropriate, or I just wasn't good on with further reading. A wise friend wrote the following message by email: "Are you spending too much time picking and not enough practicing? Pull the trigger, man!" Yes, I suppose I am...

Page Under Construction

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.

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...

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:

1. Mystery and Suspense


2. Fiction (New Fiction, Best Seller, Science Fiction)


3. Classic (Fiction or Fact)


4. Nonfiction (Fact, History, Science, Biography, Memoirs, Political)


5. Humor, Poetry and Drama


6. Young Adult (Contemporary, Children's Collections)


7. Instructional (Philosophy, Education, Business, Management)


8. 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.

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.

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.

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:

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."

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:

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Notes on Madness

Three issues today:

1. 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.


2. 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?


3. 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...

Argh. I was hoping that sharing would get it out of my system, but now I'm just sullen all over again. We're closing in on the end of the semester, though, and the grading piles are slowly going down, so I should survive to grade another day (and, hopefully, you know—help some students learn or something along the way). Tonight I get to watch a play with my honors class (from which that paper was drawn, as evinced by the high vocabulary and generally acceptable grammar), and that's always entertaining. At least there's that.

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.