Adventures in Middle School.... Again

Adventures in Middle School.


Again.



8.17.04

Crotchety old head of department: I wanted to ask you something...what was it?
Me: Perhaps it was, "Ms. Backes, how did you get to be so awesome?"
COHOD: What?
Me: Um, nothing.
COHOD: Awesome? No! I learned the hard way -- never marry awesome women! I married three of them. Marry someone who will stay home and cook for you!



Ms. Backes' Classroom Rules:
1. Shower every day.
2. Use deoderant. Reapply after PE.
3. Brush your teeth every morning.
(Justification: Smelly kids get fewer dates.)
4. No barfing in my room. If you must spew, spew onto the linoleum in the hallway or onto the concrete in the parking lot, but preferably the hallway, because I have to cross that concrete to get to my truck.
5. No bleeding.
6. No haters. There won't be no hatin' in this room.

***

8.17.04

Today I was telling my 7th period class about The Puppy (because for some reason everyone in that class has a weird nickname: Rabbit, The Turtle, Salad, Troy the Tiger, Umbrella -- I'm not making this up) and said, "HE's the one who gave me SOS (shiny object syndrome, aka ADD)! One day I was trying to teach, and he was in the back of the room STAPLING HIS PANTS TOGETHER! Ten minutes later, he just randomly fell out of his chair!"

The kids all laughed.




Ten minutes later, The Turtle fell out of his chair.

***

8.18.04

Today:

-- Used Nat Goldberg's poem "Remember This Place" to teach about using specific, vivid imagery in poetry. Such a great poem, especially for New Mexicans. My activity worked well too -- feel free to rip it off -- I read the poem and then gave the kids 2 minutes to write down every word, phrase, or line they remembered from the poem. Asked people to share what they remembered, and then led into a discussion of how Goldberg uses specific imagery to paint a picture of New Mexico.

-- Talked about LABELING. "If I had a four year old daughter and told her every day that she was ugly ---"
"Ms. Backes that's mean!"
"Right. So every day I tell her she's ugly, and then she's in middle school. She looks like Beyonce, but she looks in the mirror and what does she think?"
"She thinks she's ugly!"
"Because she believed the label I gave her. We've all been labeled in our lives; our job is to re-label ourselves in a positive way. Words are powerful. Label yourself carefully."

-- Talked about PREJUDICE. Writing the word "pre" on the board, "What does this mean?"
Blank stare.
"Okay, when does the PRE-game show happen?"
"Before the game!"
"It means before!"
"Exactly." Then on the board:
judice
judicial
judge

"What does prejudice mean?"
"Before judge. Judge before."
"Right. To judge someone before you know them, based on something like skin color or clothes."

-- Watched an inspirational video about Larry Bird. My team-teacher is friends with LB because his father coached Larry in college. TT told the class stories about playing HORSE with Larry Bird. Cool.

-- Got my very first note from a student: "Dear Ms. Backes, I think that you look like Drew Barrymore. From: Sheila"

***

8.19.04

-- Remember what we talked about yesterday. Specific, concrete details. Vivid imagery. Not a car, but a 1987 tomato red Renault Alliance that looks like a tractor drove into the passenger door. Not just a cat, but a sleek black cat curled up on the adobe wall in the sun. Don't just say "It smells nice," say "It smells like...."
-- Butterflies!
-- Um, okay. It smells like butterflies. But not just butterflies, a whole herd of yellow butterflies in the afternoon!
--
--
-- Hey, you can't smell butterflies!

***

8.23.04

my team taught Humanities block comes to my room for the first time:

-- (pointing up at a wall of poems) Those people are bad at cutting! Those poems are all crooked!
-- "Those people" would be ME.
-- Whoops! I was just kidding, Ms. Backes. You're great at cutting!


-- (pointing to the map on the wall) Why is there a frame around New Mexico?
-- Because that's where we live. In case you forget.
-- That's weird! Who forgets where they live?
-- She's right! Some people don't even know this is a state!


the principal comes into my room right before lunch and hands me a book called "how to differntiate instruction in mixed-ability classrooms"

when he leaves:
-- See, the principal just gave me homework!
-- That looks boring!
-- Ha! Teachers get a taste of their own medicine, finally!!
-- Okay, what?
-- It's a taste of your own medicine, get it, because you have to do homework for once.
-- For once. Let me explain something to you. You guys are just beginning 7th grade, which means that this will be your eighth year of school.
-- But I went to kindergarten, too!
-- Right. Kindergarten through 6th is seven years; this is your eighth.
-- Oh. Right.
-- Anyhow. You all have done seven years of homework. **I** went to school every single year between 1983 and 2002. That's nineteen years of homework. So believe me, I know what it's like.
-- Whoa. That's a lot of homework.
-- Did you save it all up and do it at the last minute?
-- What?
-- Did you wait 'til the last minute to do it all?
-- Oh, yeah, absolutely. I was rushing to finish coloring in the triangles when I was a senior in college.
-- Ms. Backes, you're weird.


(7th period)

-- Can I tell you something?
-- Yes, you may tell me anything. Already today I've been told I'm cool, creative, weird, and "bad at cutting," not that I'm bitter.
-- Well, I don't know about weird or whatever, and you're cool, but what I really wanted to tell you was that you look like Drew Barrymore.
-- ..... you know, I seem to get that a lot.


-- I would like the most responsible and least likely to be absent person in the class to raise your hand.
-- Oooh! Me!
-- Me!
-- Pick me, Ms. Backes!
-- Okay... Andrew.
-- What?
-- Are you the most responsible and least likely to be absent person?
-- No way, Ms. Backes! I'm horrible! I'm the least responsible of all!


-- This is the funnest class because we learn the least. I mean the most!

***

8.24.04

2nd period.

-- But seriously, you have to feel sorry for the kid who's digging in the trash can for his retainer at the end of lunchtime.
-- (blank looks of horror)
-- Don't you have those kids?
-- NO!
-- That's gross!!
-- Really. Hmm, well it was a requisite of my middle school lunches. You'd always have the kid who put his retainer on his lunch tray, then accidentally dumped the retainer from tray into the trash, then had to dive into the garbage to find his retainer. At LEAST once a week that happened.
-- (again, horror)
-- Ms. Backes, you're dirty!

7th period.

-- Ms. Backes! Ernest said he's gay!
-- Ernest, you're gay? Oh my god!
-- What did they say? Did they say gay?
-- Who's gay?
-- Who said gay?
-- Ernest! Ernest is gay!
-- Okay, STOP.
-- (nervous looks)
-- Let's talk about this. We're going to stop and talk about this, as a class. First of all, who can tell me what it means to be gay?
-- It means happy!
-- Yes, it can still mean that, though it's mostly lost that connotation, or meaning. What else?
-- (tentative) It means two guys, like, kissing?
-- Right. It means two men or two women who are in love with one another.
-- But I, like, love my grandma. Am I gay?
-- No, Darlene. We're talking about ROMANTIC love. A lot of people feel nervous or scared when they think about the idea of being gay, and they get silly or defensive. But fundamentally, what does it mean to be gay?
-- [blank looks all around]
-- It means you love someone. It's about love. And no matter what, love is a good thing. It makes the world a better place. So when two people are gay, all it means is that they love one another, and that's never a bad thing. Questions?
-- But, it's... like, weird. It's not normal.
-- Well, it's true that sometimes gay people aren't expecting to fall in love with someone of the same sex. But in this world, love is rare and precious, and lots of times people fall in love with people they didn't expect to love. Like Romeo and Juliet -- they didn't expect to fall in love with one another. But they did. No matter what, love is a surprise, and a gift. Other questions?
-- Yeah. Like, no one can ever really know what love is, because it's just a word.
-- That's true, Darlene. (picking up an eraser) This is an eraser, and when we talk about it, we have something concrete to point to, so that we all know what an eraser is. But when we talk about love, that's so abstract, no one can ever come up to you and say, "Now, THAT'S what love feels like," because no one ever knows 100% how you're feeling. Everyone feels things differently, and there are lots of different kinds of loves. The love I felt for my 7th grade boyfriend was different than the love I felt for my college boyfriend, and that's okay.
-- What happened to your 7th grade boyfriend?
-- Um, he grew up to be a crack dealer.
-- What??
-- (quickly) I hear he's better now, though. Anyway! The point is that in this classroom, we accept people no matter who or how they love, okay? Remember, this is a Hate Free Zone, and I don't want to hear you guys making jokes about being gay or whatever. Got it?
-- Got it!
-- Yep!


A few minutes later Ernest came up to me and said, "Ms. Backes, I love you." And Rabbit, a tough barrio-type kid who happens to carry pink purses and wear princess sweatshirts (think of a young, hispanic [pasquesi01]), said "Can I have a hug after class?"


Which totally made that conversation worth it, even though I'm sure that tomorrow I'll be hearing from pissed-off parents who hate queers.

***

8.25.04

Principal: How's it going?
Me: Good, but I think I'm getting sick.
Principal: Let me tell you, you'll get everything except maybe leprosy from these kids.
Me: !

Crotchety old head of department: How's it going?
Me: Okay. I think I'm getting sick.
COHOD: Take my word for it, this year you'll get everything from these kids except a venereal disease.
Me: !!!!


a few days ago...

-- Ms. Backes, what's your schedule?
-- Well, I teach Humanities first and second, and language arts 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th.
-- What about third?
-- That's when I hide under my desk and hope no one finds me.


and today....

-- (I walk into the library, looking for books on native american myths)
-- Ms. Backes! What are you doing?!?
-- (startled) What?
-- Shouldn't you be hiding under your desk right now??


We're writing autobiographical poems, and one kid ends every stanza with the line, "And I am Ellery W. Jones, the smartest boy in the world."

During my prep, the principal comes into the room:
-- That poem project you're doing is really good!
-- Thanks. It's a big project, but we've broken it up into small enough parts, I hope, that it's manageable.
-- You know, I've known Ellery Jones since he was in kindergarten, and I am really impressed by the quality of work you've inspired from him.
-- You mean, Ellery W. Jones, the smartest boy in the world?
--
-- That's how he ends all his stanzas. "And I am Ellery W. Jones, the smartest boy in the world."
-- You know, his parents used to think he was retarded.
-- Oh!

***


Thanks for the postcards, everyone! Especially Mom, Sally, and Gail, who sent them in bulk. You are awesome.

What I Love, a list.

What I love:

Sprinklers outside my window making little rainbows in the late afternoon sun. Two dogs lying on my floor. Dar Williams, and her new book Amalee. Pat O'Neil & Gina Difino, who are going to visit me on their honeymoon. The pretty purple Sandias against the blue eastern sky. My wonderful, prolific, artistic friends. Long conversations with new people that just click. Sitting near the wide open doors at the Flying Star, overlooking the green patio, and gossiping about hot men. Jennie. Holding a little American Kestrel Falcon on the glove, especially when she pulls all the intestines out of her mouse and drapes them across my thumb. Also when she rips the mousie's head off and drops it on my feet. Doing geeky education work, behavioral theory and curriculum development. Watching the sun set over the West Mesa. Giggling with Grechen and TJ. Finding a good bar. The last two songs on the Lifehouse album Cam burned for me. Gregory McGuire's book Wicked (I highly recommend it). Holding a little Mexican freetail bat so TJ can drain the growth behind his eye with a hypodermic needle. Driving to work before the sun rises above the Sandias (haven't done that one in a while...). Heather Moore. Mangoritas. The amazing pictures my sister gave me for graduation. Reading new things my talented friends have written. Flashing white teeth in a laughing mouth. Joking about the triumverate of western thought (I'm the lower-left hand corner). Quiche. Taking a shower when the sun's directly overhead and rippling through the skylight. Showers with skylights, for that matter -- this is my second! Cassiopeia, smudgy last night over the mountains. Watching the trams creep up and down, shiny by day and night. Bartenders who put orange slices in my beer. Rainstorms in the desert. Lots of stuff.

Morning Road

Winter still, the light comes long
after I rise
above sleeping streets, stoplights
blinking yellow, yellow,
yellow at the corner.

Quick mix muffins in the oven,
radio humming quiet news, and I
under skylight in the shower,
soaking in the early
dark, late stars.

Half-past five I’m on my stoop,
watching you drive the empty
street, ease into park before me.
I greet you with muffins, mountain
dew, music.

You, in red car and ironed shirt,
smile hello, too early
for words. On the highway,
the horizon is violet, flecked
with stars like first freckles

in summer. Now they fade,
soft with shadow, fields
emerge around us, morning geese
rise to flight, now black
against the rising sun. We drive

east. Together, the sun
our guide, and still
between us,
quiet.

Sunday afternoon, Albuquerque

A dream:

Torrential rain, the kind midwesterners take as fact now, the kind I brought back with me for a few days. Rain, driving rain, sheets of white rain. And then, stepping out into our backyard here: huge tropical flowers everywhere. Our desert garden become a jungle paradise. I walk through, transfixed, carefully touching petals like soft cheeks to assure myself they're real. My mother's here, and she tells me the names of these blossoms; in answer to my wonder, she says, "This is the nature of the desert: comes the rain, and then the flowers."

As if such beauty were a fact of life, a shrug of that's the way things go....

In any case, a good omen, I think. It occurred to me yesterday that my dreams are usually lovely. Such a gift. I am reminded of the summer of 2001, when Ali kept dreaming of disaster, of tornados and volcanos, while I dreamed of buzzing bees and fields of sunflowers.

This morning, a discussion:
-- If you had to choose, would you rather lose your hearing or your vision?
-- Well, that's so hard, because how could I go without hearing music, and the voices of the people I love?
-- Oh, what a revelation! The things worth hearing are music and human voices!
-- Come on, I'm serious.
-- Yeah, but everyone would say that.
-- Okay, to be specific: Shostakovitch's cello concerto, and the voice of Miss Ali Brown.
-- How sweet.
-- And vision? I'd regret most losing the rolling green hills of Iowa, the autumn sky over cornfields, the lakes.
-- I've never met anyone who loved Iowa like you do.


This morning Albuquerque seemed exotic and new, more like a place I'd visit on vacation than my home for the last ten months. The air this morning was crisp and shiny, and the red-tiled rooftops hummed in the sun. The long view down into the valley, the blue Sandias, the power-walkers trucking up the hills in bermuda shorts and visors. Slowly, slowly, it becomes home, and I know I will be sorry when I leave, but I will.

Sunday morning, Des Moines

Cam's in the shower, Adam's at the Y, and I'm waiting for someone to be clean and/or present enough to go get bagels with me. My last Iowa morning for a while...

Here, I slip so easily into the life that was mine: surrounded by friends but solitary still, directing the course of my days according to my own whims. Yesterday morning I drove down from Madison (and missed my favorite stretch of 151, between Platteville and Dickeyville, under construction!), had lunch with Jamie at the Depot, coffee with Adam at Saint's Rest, ran into Mark Baechtel and Jean Ketter and talked to them, went out to Rock Creek with Zeke and hiked down to the dam (heavy and full this year), and then moseyed through Newton on my way to Des Moines, where I sat in a ballpark with the good people of Des Moines and enjoyed the high drama of semi-pro baseball -- even though Cam didn't play much -- as the evening cooled and the lights came on.

This is my Iowa life. As it ever was.

And oh, how I hate to leave. Which is not to say that I'm not eager to get back to Albuquerque -- I am -- but simply that these people are too significant to me to be replaced, and this land too much a part of me to not feel like home.

LATE Monday night

Though the low point of my day today involved a woman DRIVING INTO MY TRUCK as I was parked in the Triangle Grocery parking lot in Cedar Crest (notably talking to Cam -- how many people can say they've been auditory witness to an accident from 1200 miles away?), the evening more than compensated. The move uptown has taken my life in an overwhelmingly positive direction, and everything looks a little brighter on this side of May 10. Most evenings, I sit on the patio in our backyard and watch the sunset fall across the Sandias, the lights rise in the city below us, the lizards running across our "orchard" wall.

But. I'm coming home!! I plan to leave excruciatingly early Thursday morning (June 10), meet Tim in OK City for food and delightful conversation (how is it possible that I haven't seen him since graduation?), and then hit Des Moines for a few days to give birthday presents to Cam & Adam. Then maybe a stop in Peoria, and... Madison! For a glorious six days of swinging my legs against the pier, watching the sun set over Lake Mendota -- drinking beer on the Union Terrace, listening to music -- hiking out to Picnic Point -- wandering down State Street -- possibly hitting up the Angelic or Paul's Club or the Great Dane or (if Cindy has any say) the Main Tap -- writing at Steep & Brew -- driving along John Nolen toward the most perfect skyline in the world -- playing in the arboretum -- of course, bottomless cups of shitty coffee at Perkins -- oh! and pizza at Marias! So much, so much....

Most of all: the lakes. The ducks. The low green hills and steamy June nights of early summer in Wisconsin.

Strangely, perhaps, I am also looking forward to -- but no, that's not strong enough -- I'm craving the long twisting stretch of 151 between Grinnell and Oregon. I confess that much homesickness roots itself along those roads, which is I suppose appropriate, given my torn devotion to two midwestern hometowns. How many times did I drive that long, lovely route between 1997 and 2003? I know it all, every inch, every falling barn and striking bridge....

I had planned to drive right from Des Moines to Peoria, but... ah, I am longing for the drive up through Cedar Rapids and Dubuque, Anamosa and Dickeyville.... In any case, I'll drive it on my way back.

ANYhow, I'll have my cell the whole time, so find me! Take me out for drinks and darts! I can't wait to see you, everyone, my family.

Peter Mulvey!!

LATE Wednesday Night (take two)

Originally, I began this entry with a long and poetic metaphor about climbing in the foothills and staying so focused on avoiding the spines of cacti and putting one foot in front of the other on the red rocky trail and breathing that you lose the perspective of how high you've climbed, how far you've come, until you turn to see the city spread out beneath you, the Rio Grande twisting and flashing in the late sun, the secretive Mt Taylor holding the sunset -- and suddenly you realize that everything is magically, wonderfully, perfectly okay.

Believe me, it was much longer and lots prettier, but then my computer blipped out on me and all was lost.

So I shall simply cut to the story. The real story of tonight. But first, as Matt Pickett would say, let me back up.


1st.
Madison, Wisconsin. Spring of 1995

On the basis of a few songs on a mix tape by the Divine Heather James, I accompany her to a Dar Williams concert at the Pres House on campus. I know very little about Dar, and absolutely nothing about her opening act, a musician named Peter Mulvey. Peter Mulvey comes out on stage in a tee-shirt, ripped jeans, and beat-up converse all-stars (I love him already). He stands on the edge of that small stage and plays some driving acoustic folk/rock, singing about the LA riots and about falling out of love and about dreams. I am enchanted. Later, I go up to him, buy an album (Rapture), and shyly tell him I liked the show.

***

Interlude
Peter Mulvey's album Rapture features two versions of a cover of The Waterboys' song "Whole of the Moon." The second version, my favorite, was recorded in the subways of Boston. Mid-way through the song, you can hear people in the background, and Peter stops singing for a second to thank someone (presumably for dropping cash into his open guitar case). At the end of the song, you hear the train pulling away from the platform.

***

2nd.
Somerville, Massachusetts. Summer of 2000.

I am living in Somerville (aka Boston), and have a two-hour commute to work every day. This commute begins, every day, with a walk of just over a mile from my apartment to the Davis T (subway) station. Every day I walk to the T, go down several flights of stairs and escalators to the platform, and catch an inbound (red line) train to the Harvard Square T stop, where I get off the train, head above ground to Harvard Square, and catch a bus. I think of Peter Mulvey and his Boston-T-recorded song sometimes as I ride the train, wondering if he ever played in my station, the Davis stop. One morning -- a rainy, gross day -- after walking more than a mile through the driving rain, I get to the T station and happily hear that we have a musician today. Even though 70% of the "music" that happens in our T station follows the loosest definition of music, I'm happy. As I skip down the first staircase to the turnstiles, the music becomes more clear, and I can hear that it's actually quite lovely. On the escalator down to the platform, I finally place it, realize why it sounds so familiar -- holy shit, it's Peter Mulvey! I am so stunned and happy that I go up to him immediately and say, "Peter Mulvey!" He says yes? I say, "Hello -- I love you --" or something... he invites me to sit down next to him, and I do. He continues to strum on the guitar as we chat. I tell him that I saw him in Madison years ago, and that it's so great to see him here because I always think of him in these subways, playing "Whole of the Moon." We talk about Wisconsin (he's from Milwaukee) and Boston and opening for Dar. And then, tragedy of tragedies, my train arrives. I get up to leave, thank him, say goodbye. As I'm crossing the platform to step through the silver doors of the red line, Peter calls, "Hey Molly -- nice shoes!" I look down and realize -- we're both wearing converse all stars! I wave back to him as my train pulls away from the station.

***

Interlude.

Time goes by -- I leave Boston and go back to Grinnell -- and I tell the story of How I Met Peter Mulvey as one of the highlights of my summer in Boston. I even tell it on "Hot Dish (For Lunch!)," the radio show Sister Mary Hoeschen and I co-host on 88.9 KDIC FM senior year. After seeing him in the Davis T, I buy a copy of the album he'd been selling that day, The Trouble With Poets.

Later, my mother hears an interview with Peter Mulvey on NPR, an interview in which he's talking about his new album which was recorded entirely in the Davis T Stop. My mother promptly buys it on amazon.com and has it sent to my house in Iowa. I listen to it and happily remember my summer in Boston.

3rd.
Albuquerque, New Mexico. Earlier this week.

Monday morning, and I am driving home from work at 11 am because I have a terrible, debilitating migraine. Listening to Radio Free Santa Fe, I hear a song that I like, just as I am turning off Tramway onto San Rafael. I think to myself that I should remember who the singer is because maybe I should pick up an album of his. The DJ comes on and says, "that was Peter Mulvey from his new album..." -- and I think, ooh! a new album? I must get a copy! -- "...and Peter will be playing in Albuquerque on Wednesday night...." I catch my breath. What? WHAT?

By the time I get home, my migraine has me so confused and fucked up that I can't function. However, once I recover, I track down the place where Peter's playing and reserve a seat. The man calls me back to give me directions. The concert is part of a series called the "House Concerts" -- and suddenly I realize that it's actually in a house.

4th.
Albuquerque, in someone's HOUSE. Tonight.

Not knowing what to expect, I head down to the Old Town area shortly after work. The house is in a fancy gated community called "The Gardens." I have to buzz in to have the gate opened. I find the house without trouble and make my way up to the front door. Yep, it's just someone's house. A man greets me at the door and says, "Make yourself at home! There's a TON of food in the kitchen, and the fridge is stocked!" The house is nice, elegantly decorated -- and filled with about 40 folding chairs. I arrive about 20 minutes before the concert is to begin, and only 6 or 7 other people are there. I get myself a drink -- a diet pepsi, though the fridge is full of beer and wine coolers and juices -- and look around.

I spot him right away. He is talking to a tall man with silver hair who is animatedly talking about... well, something. I catch bits and pieces of the conversation -- something about corporate whores, I think, and Clear Channel. Ah. I try to summon the courage to go up to Peter Mulvey and tell him that I've met him twice before, once in Madison and once in Boston, but the tall man will not let him go. The tall man is swinging his wine cooler bottle around for emphasis. Peter sips at a diet pepsi. He catches my eye over the man's shoulder and smiles at me. Twice.

Eventually, I give up on the idea that I'll talk to him, and go take a seat. The room -- the house -- is filling up. I sit in the front row and pull out my journal, which is fairly new, and small enough to fit in my purse (I love that!). I write until the first set begins.

Peter sits on a high chair that looks like it's been pulled from the breakfast bar. He's just a few feet in front of me. Tonight it's just him and his guitar, playing to an audience of maybe 50 people in someone's living room. The first set goes well, and he plays songs from all three of the albums I have, as well as new songs and covers. I am purely, simply happy, and bask in the all's-well feeling I always get in the presence of great live music.

At the set break, Peter puts his guitar down, stands, and walks up to me. "Hi, we've met before, right? You look so familiar...." I stand, placing my journal on my chair, and say, "Yes, actually we have." [I am REELING. I am STUNNED. It is all I can do to act even remotely like a human being.] Peter says, "Not here, right?" I nod. "In Boston?" I say, "Yep. Well, actually we met at the Pres House in Madison, like a hundred years ago, and then we met again on the T in Boston a few years ago." Peter says, "I KNEW it!" Then he squints and says, "At the Pres House in Madison? Was that when I opened for Dar?" "Yeah." "Oh my gosh," he says, "that was... nine years ago!" I nod again. "Nine, a hundred... same difference." He smiles. "So how did you get from Boston to Albuquerque?" I tell him that I made a fairly arbitrary decision -- right about the time I first met him -- to move here when I grew up. He seems impressed, and we talk a little bit about Wisconsin, about Madison and Milwaukee. He tells me he has friends in Madison who are expecting their first baby. We talk about how I've now seen him in three of the four states I've lived in -- all but Iowa. "I play Iowa sometimes!" he says. I say, "Well I'll have to make sure I get to an Iowa concert!" Then he notices my journal. "Oh, I LOVE that kind! I have the same one! It opens flat, right?" "Yeah, that's why I chose it," I say. "They're great -- but so expensive! What's the point of spending that much on a journal when you just burn through it, right?" This is exactly what I thought when I bought this one. I smile.

Then a woman comes up with a CD for Peter to sign. He winks at me and turns to her to play the famous guy. She introduces herself and says, "I'm from Madison!" Peter says, "So is Molly! What's your name again?" "Karen," the woman says. Peter introduces us: "Karen, meet Molly. She's from Madison, too. Molly, Karen." Karen and I chat about Madison as Peter gets dragged away by some old ladies with sharpies who want him to sign their CDs. Karen HATES Albuquerque, and can't wait to go back to Madison. She moved here for a boy, and a job. Now she's "stuck" in graduate school. I say that I miss Madison, but that I'd miss the mountains if I left. Karen says condescendingly, "Well, New Mexico's a nice place. You have fun here." A few minutes later, the tall guy comes up to me and asks me if I'm a writer. He tells me that he's a producer for NPR, and asks me if I've ever heard this show where they ask random people on the street what the top headlines of their lives are. I say that I have, and then I have to tell him what I liked about it. He seems earnest, but just desperate for validation. I'm polite, but relieved when the lights blink for the second set.

The second set is even better than the first, with several Ireland-inspired songs. At the end of the set, the audience spontaneously gives Peter a standing ovation to make him come back and play an encore. He jokes, "Mom, I got a standing o at the concert tonight! Yeah, it was in someone's house.... so what's your point?"

Afterward, I head straight for the door -- it's getting late and I have to work tomorrow. Peter catches me as I'm leaving and says, "Hey, it was great to see you again! Thanks for coming!" And then he hugs me. [A voice in my head is jumping up and down yelling, "PETER MULVEY JUST HUGGED YOU!!!!!!!] I smile and say, "Yeah, it was great! Thanks!" He says, "Well, hopefully it won't be so many years before we meet again, huh?" I laugh and agree. A man passes us and says goodbye, and then Peter turns back to me. Recalling the vow I made to myself earlier in the evening -- I promised myself that if I got to talk to him, I'd keep in mind the fact that he's just a guy, just a person that could easily be a friend of mine, and talk to him no differently than I talk to my friends -- I say, "Hey, during the second set I was thinking about the first time I saw you play, nine years ago -- you were wearing ratty jeans and converse all-stars, and you seemed nervous. You've come so far since then, you're really doing wonderfully. Congratulations." "Thanks," he says, and then jokes, "yeah, I'm grown-up now -- my voice finally changed!" We laugh, and say goodbye again.

I practically fly out the door, wanting to scream. PETER MULVEY REMEMBERED ME! PETER MULVEY HUGGED ME! AAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!

***


So that's the story for tonight. Keep an eye on the mailbox for invitations to our wedding later this summer.


***




The ABQ Famous Person List:
1. Bob Graham asked me if a lobo was a type of wolf. Later, he asked me to order him a milkshake.
2. His wife used to teach English in Newton, just like me! And she told me I was a good driver.
3. John Kerry gave me the thumbs up.
4. I met a bunch of other dem candidates -- as well as Governor Richardson -- at the after-debate party.
5. Natalie Goldberg led me through writing exercises in workshop. (!!!)
6. Lou Diamond Phillips likes my jacket.
7. PETER MULVEY HUGGED ME!

Saturday night in Albuquerque, and I'm feeling distinctively melancholy. I've been packing up the house since I got home from work tonight, and though I've packed up my things and moved twelve times now since high school, all this packing takes me back to last summer, when I was packing up my darling apartment on the corner of Main and 4th in Grinnell. The last time I packed, Cam came over and helped me wrap all my dishes in newspaper and fit them into (only) two boxes. Ali came over, found me on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by papers and books and other assorted garbage, and immediately began to throw things away for me. Jamie came and dragged me off to the pub on my last full night in Iowa. And Cam, Adam, Ali, and Jamie helped me pack up my truck (Ali could be a bricklayer, for her amazing skills at stuffing as much as possible into my tiny truck).

Some thoughts from leaving Grinnell:

10:30 pm Thursday night 14 August 2003 901 ½ Main G-nell

Just said goodbye to Cam, for a few months at least if he doesn’t make it back here in time to say goodbye tomorrow. I sent him off with part of my novel, a vanilla coke, some hugs, and a bunch of my furniture, including my papysan chair, the old brown fur couch, my bed, my desk, the stereo shelf, some rugs, some other shelves, the big wooden shelf I had all the dog food on... and he gave me a check for $100!! And the assurance that I mean just as much to him as he does to me... he said he’d never been so sad in his life, between me leaving and his grandmother dying and school starting... what a great guy. So lucky to have him in my life. He spent almost 2 hours tonight helping me pack up my kitchen stuff. And now I’m going to the pub so I don’t get too cry-y. I told him that after he left in June, I got all cry-y, and he said that he’d probably cry in the truck tonight on the way back to Des Moines. But we agreed that it takes a stronger person to let yourself feel those sad feelings than it does to suppress them....

2:40 am later

It’s nearly 3 and I’m not at all tired. The night is misty, humid, and warm, & I’m listening to Radiohead alone in my increasingly empty apartment. In the back of this legal pad are old notes from freshman year, the beginning of a letter to our prospie Anne, some Spanish, some notes back and forth between Tori and me. Tomorrow I will throw them away, but tonight they stand witness to the five years of my life I’ve spent in this amazing place. I can’t believe I’m leaving. I’m leaving tomorrow – tonight is my last night in Grinnell. It hurts me. The weight of all these years sits heavy on my chest like an asthma attack. All the nights here. All the deep, long talks with people I love like Jamie & Ali & Cam & Carrie & Kevin & Mary & Tim & Tori & everyone else... all the walks... how well I know all the streets, this sky, these stars... how I’ve seen this land safely through 5 autumns, five winters, 5 springs. This is the first autumn of my life – I mean, well... of the last 5 years, I guess, but when I say my life it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration — that I’m not coming back to Grinnell. It’s autumn and I’m leaving Grinnell & everything seems backward & upside down. When J & I were talking...Jamie said something [...] and I said, “See, and when you say that, I have this feeling —” I put my hand over my heart and Jamie nodded. “This heavy sense of love – and loss – and hope – and deep sadness ...” Jamie nodded again, knowing what I meant — and right now I’m feeling all that and more about Grinnell, and about Iowa, and all that I’ve done and been and learned and loved here. This place, this town and this college and these people — are my home just as much as Oregon and Madison are, but the difference is that the people who make Oregon and Madison home will always be there, whereas the same is not true for Grinnell. In three or five or ten years all my beloved Grinnell friends will be gone, and though I’ll be able to come home to these streets and trees and cornfields, I’ll never be able to come home to the same Grinnell that I’m leaving tomorrow.

A part of me doesn’t want to sleep at all, just wants to sit awake all night and see this town through one last night under my care, watch the sky ease into one more dawn before my loving vigil. I feel so lost already... and though I am excited about my move, I realize that I’m complicating, forever, my life so that I’ll never be able to feel like I’m home without feeling at least a little bit homeless or displaced again. In the desert I will miss the cornfields, and in the midwest I’ll miss the mountains. What was that Richard Jackson quote? "Just when we begin to trust in the moonlight we notice how many stars it erases – it is not easy."

2 police officers, strolling down the street, look up and see me sitting in my window, and wave. Radiohead is perfect for the quiet, sad, weird mood I’m in. As if anything could accurately describe what I am at this moment, on the eve of my farewell to Grinnell.

It's strange to be leaving this house, because though -- as my mother keeps reminding me -- it's not a particularly friendly or warm place, it's been my only home since I left Iowa. And it's true that this house has never felt like home in the same way that 1017 High Street or 901 1/2 Main Street did, nevertheless, this is the place where I first made my life in New Mexico. But then, we all know how terrible I am at saying goodbye....


I'll feel better this time tomorrow, when the bulk of my belongings are ensconced in Lisa's house, when I begin again to make a home for myself here among the cholla and the pinon, the epic skies and the many faces of the mountains.

I'm moving across town, the Madison equivalent of moving from a little house on, say, West Mifflin, to a big house out on Lake Kegonsa (the Grinnell equivalent of moving from High Street to Newton). It's a 25 minute drive from Vassar Dr to Del Ray, more if there's traffic. A completely different neighborhood, a different demographic, a different feel. Where I live now, the houses are all smushed together (I can hear every conversation my neighbors have when they're in their garage and I'm in my backyard, or when they're outside and I have my windows open -- though it's not as bad as our house in Boston, where you could practically reach out from our kitchen window and touch the next house over) and the neighborhood is full of grad students, twenty-somethings, and young families. In order to see the Sandias from my house, you have to leave the yard, walk down the block to the corner, and look east -- they're off in the distance.... Lisa's house -- my new home, for now -- has such a huge yard that it almost seems rural. The neighbors are far away (though you can hear the peacocks screaming a few houses down, no problem) and the mountains are close. You can't not see the mountains, from Lisa's. It's a beautiful, beautiful place, and I'll be very lucky to call it home for a while. But for now, for tonight -- the last night in my house on Vassar Drive -- I'm sad to be packing and leaving, and missing all the people who mean home.



"...But every once in a while I miss Iowa, even though I only lived there for a few years.”

“Was it hard to leave?”

She nods, still staring into the fire. “Yes, it was.... I remember giving all my furniture and plants away to my closest friends like each was a promise. Like my things could take my place in their lives. Like, here take this chair and think of me every time you sit in it.” She’s quiet a moment, thinking, but he doesn’t say anything, and after a breath she continues. “I guess a part of me thought that my stuff could watch over my friends, too. Here, take this lamp, that aloe plant, and you’ll be safer. You’ll be okay. And I thought —”

“What?”

“I thought, if I leave all my things with these people, it’s a commitment to see them again. I didn’t realize then how insignificant things were....”

New: Sister



Also, Miss Heather James, writer extraordinaire, Mr. Kevin Cannon, artist extraordinaire, and Ms. Mama Backes, reader extraordinaire, all liked The Place of Movement and Order! Yay!


AND, Miss Ila Gates-Thomas called me on Sunday and reminded me that Sunday was the 9-year-anniversary of my first journal entry ever. Happy anniversary, journals!



Also: (from my Plan)


Sunday, May 2 (Happy Birthday, Nat!)

Yesterday was the play over which I've been tearing my hair out for the last month. It went well!! Especially the grand finale, when the Evil Queen gets hit in the face with a whipped cream pie! HII-larious! Especially cool was the fact that the mayor (at my request) issued an official proclamation in the newspaper on Thursday, declaring Saturday to be Caring Community Day in Tijeras. In addition to the play we had animals, face painting, an art show, and music by two talented high school bands. So fun.

Afterward, all the parents and grandparents came up to me and thanked me and I had this weird sensation that my life had once again crossed wires with Anne Shirley's -- the scene after she directs Mary Queen of Scots and wins over all the mean Pringles come up and tell her they loved her. A feeling that suddenly I was a part of this community. Anyway.

Then the director and assistant director of TT took me out to lunch and were falling all over me (at one point, Laurie squealed, "I just LOVE you, Molly!") even though up to this point I'd been flying under their radar, so to speak.

And now I'm nervous!! Having proven myself to the community members and administration of TT, I will lose the luxury of anonymity at work. Now facing a significant promotion, including an increase in hours, responsibility, and pay (and perhaps title as well), I'm more nervous than ever about the fine line between being a part of the TT family and getting sucked into the drama and intrigue of TT (which is a lot like college/high school/junior high in its love for back-stabbing and gossip! -- does this ever end? do people ever grow up?).

To complicate and add to my issues of boundaries, privacy, and personal integrity, the director of TT has asked me to move in with him! He has two houses on his land (a beautiful beautiful place in the east mountains), and likes to have at least two tenants in one of the houses at all times. One of his two is currently moving out, and he's pressuring me to move in.... but I'm strongly considering moving in with a different person from TT... which means that as much as I resist it, TT WILL become my life.

So that's where I am right now.



And now I have to get ready to go to a little girl's First Holy Communion (the only girl in a family of four kids, three of whom I've had in various classes) and then go party with her extremely Hispanic/Catholic family. Wild.

Among other things...

A picture of my darling Grinnell -- looks like some things never change! Ha ha!

Got to talk to Ali & Nadia (!!) last night, who called me from Cape Town, and then tonight had a lovely, meandering conversation with my Kevin, who's just arrived home from Belize. Other than that, my easter's been pretty uneventful: no resurrections here, and no eggs either. Though I did dream that I had twelve swimming babies....

Good god, it's been a long time. My apologies to all who've emailed in wonder or worry ("with you, no news is NOT good news!"), and thanks to everyone who called and/or sent cards on my birthday. Twenty-four! Ach, and my arthritis, it's killing me!

Anyway, haven't much time to write just now, but I wanted to trumpet a bit: I get to workshop with Natalie Goldberg!!!!!! Could I be more excited??

The weather this weekend has been unspeakably beautiful! Yesterday I spent part of the afternoon sun-bathing in my backyard. As we used to say when pressed for words, AMAZING! At one point, Danielle and her mother came out onto the back patio and asked, "Isn't it a bit cold for sunning?" I said, "You forget I'm from the deep north. It doesn't get this warm there until June!"

Truly, yesterday was a day for Mac Field. On such a day in Grinnell, everyone would be out on Mac Field, lying on blankets pretending to study, or napping, or playing frisbee. At least one person would be sitting under the giant old oak tree with a guitar, strumming to an audience of a few friends. Possibly some Blue House types would have dragged a couch and/or a keg out onto the field. At least one loggia dweller would be blasting his stereo out through his window, maybe from Langan or Clark, and the field would be filled with the sounds of the mingling musics, the shouting from frisbee players, the laughing and chatting of people gathered around this or that blanket....

For some reason, it makes me think of this Johnny Cavalier strip, mainly for the shot of Mac Field.


***

Looks like Ila and David may be coming out to meet my beloved mountains in a few weeks! Whoo hoo! It's all a part of my diabolical plan to get everyone I love to move out here, so I can be surrounded by cool folks without leaving New Mexico. Fools! I'll snare them all! Mwa ha ha!

***

Last night I got to talk to my Carrie for hours, hooray! She's just moved to North Carolina, and so I got to play mentor to her experiment in uprooting one's self. Been-there-done-that. It was interesting to talk to her, because it helped me to realize how settled I've become here in many ways, and how tied to home I still am in others. Too, it's interesting that many of my friends seem to be having similar crises just now: lacking direction, lacking the easy path school offers, many of us feel driftless, aimless, worried. It's hard not to be tied down. It's hard to have such shallow roots that you could move at any time to any place -- because it means that no one needs you.

Getting married and going to graduate school seem to be ways of fighting this, the terror of an empty life. I think there's something valuable in facing the emptiness, though. I think there's something to be gained in living through the sense of aimlessness, because it means facing the ways in which you're beholden to yourself, and honoring them. I don't know, though. Talking to Carrie, I remembered that not everyone is on a life-long quest of -- for lack of a better term I'll say self-improvement -- as I am. The writer in me wants to keep pushing me into situations that scare me so I'll be forced to grow, with the rationale that every lesson I learn and every experience I have will feed my writing. The teacher in me does the same. Not everyone has that, I am reminded, and so not everyone is content to take time to explore the world and follow paths that may not lead to specific goal fulfillment. Working at Talking Talons probably won't help me get into graduate school, for example, but I do think it will help me to be a better writer and a better teacher.

All this is not to say, of course, that I do not have moments of sheer terror at the lack of long-term structure my life has. I do. I often find myself in envy of those people in my life who know roughly what they'll be doing ten years from now. Cindy for example: ten years from now she'll be busy raising a 15-year-old. There's safety in that knowledge, and comfort. And yes, I do realize that anything could happen at any time to change even the most structured of lives, and no, I don't want to be raising a 15-year-old ten years from now, but... even so, there are times when the knowledge that my future and the course of my life depend entirely on me, the knowledge that I'm the one who will have to decide the path my life takes -- there are times when that knowledge hangs heavy.

Post-graduation stress syndrome? :-)

***

Oh, and I've been meaning to post this for a long time. It was written by my friend Kate Herold, a Grinnell alum who worked at Planned Parenthood in both Chicago and Des Moines:


people i have met that have shaken up my worldview:
the 12-year-old girl who was raped by the man her
parents paid to sneak her into the united states
and by the time she figure out she was pregnant it
was too far to have an abortion ~ the woman who was
beaten up so badly it was difficult for her to sit
down and stand up for all the different steps of
the procedure ~ the woman who manuevered around the
clinic on crutches and had had knee surgery because
her husband had pushed her out the second-floor
window ~ the woman who was pregnant because her
husband had destroyed all her birth control pills
and he doesn't give her any money so she can't buy
more birth control, and she can't call the abortion
loan fund because they don't have long distance
service and he monitors her phone calls and her two
oldest children have already been taken by social
services because of the violence in the home and he
has told her that he's going to buy a gun but she
insists she has to go home after her abortion
because that's where her baby is and she doesn't
want to lose him too ~ the woman who wanted nothing
more than to have a child but she'd been diagnosed
with breast cancer and she had to choose between
the pregnancy she'd already conceived and her own
chemo ~ the woman who'd had trouble conceiving for
years and now that she had done so accidentally had
to terminate the pregnancy because she'd been
taking accutane and the child would have had severe
internal and external birth defects and she cried
the whole three hours she was in the clinic ~ all
the women who have an abortion to keep their
boyfriend/husband/partner happy and then the guy
leaves her anyway ~ all the women who have the baby
because their boyfriend/husband/partner is opposed
to abortion and then the guy leaves her and the
baby anyway ~ the woman whose partner left in a
huff the night she told him she thought she had
herpes because he figured it meant she'd cheated on
him when in fact you can have herpes a long time
without knowing, hell, he might have given it to
her ~ all the women who come in asking for std
tests because their partners have cheated and come
home again to give them an infection ~ all the
fourteen year old girls having sex not because it
feels good for them but because they're afraid
they'll be left all alone if they say no ~ the
woman who, right before her abortion, asked if she
was going to die and really really believed she
probably would but that was the risk she was
willing to take--that's how important it was for
her not to have one more child--she was ready to
die as long as she could not have one more child
and THAT is why every woman in every state must
have access to safe legal abortion and unbiased
information about birth control and sexually
transmitted infections because if women are
expected by society to be nothing but attractive
bodies to fuck and machines to pump out babies and
we buy into it so wholesale that we are having sex
by fourteen and having babies by sixteen and it
will change the course of our lives forever then we
need to have that information upfront or we will
never be equal. If we don't have access to
education and reproductive healthcare we will never
ever have a chance at equality.












So there you have it.

The Etymology Log (Hardcover Title: When Geeks Graduate)

Most of you non-Grinnellians have heard me talking about Plans before, and so know that Plans is the online community of Grinnell students, alums, and professors that allows many of us to stay connected with one another though we're far apart. Plans are different from blogs -- though not too far from a Grinnellian-only "Live Journal" -- because they're text only (one) and they're highly interconnected (two) and there's no ongoing log of them (three) and because the effect of Plans on the Grinnell community and the role of Plans in daily interaction is too complex to be explained properly, ever.

Suffice to say, for now, that Plans are like little community white-boards that many of my Grinnell friends and I check and update daily.

Today, I value Plans for the connection they allow me to have to the Grinnell community. Whenever I have a humorous anecdote or burning question, I turn to Plans. Recently, I was wondering about the etymology of the word "chiropteran" (bat), and -- lacking the Holy Oxford English Dictionary (OED) -- turned to my friends Caleb Lindley (my savior in our "English Historical Linguistics" class), Mark Bourne (linguistic superstar), and others in PlanLand (like Pat O'Neil and Posey Gruener, both English All-Stars, both in my Milton seminar senior year) for answers....


Plan of:
backes
Last log in:
Wed February 4th, 1:26 AM
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Wed February 4th, 1:02 AM
Name:
Precipitation Envy


[heroldk], [bournem], [lindley], or other such linguistic genuises:
can someone tell me the etymology of "chiropractor" and "chiropteran" (bat)?

I have a feeling that they're related somehow. Early scientists, who had only skeletons and mating patterns on which to draw connections between species, thought bats to be the closest species to human beings, based on their skeletons and mating/nurturing habits. Closer than apes! The freaky thing is that a bat's skeleton looks like a very tiny human skeleton, only with a little fox-nosed skull and finger-bones that curve into wings.


Oh Grinnell, how I miss your free access to the OED online!

***

Plan of:
lindley
Last log in:
Fri February 6th, 3:52 PM
Last update:
Thu February 5th, 1:40 PM
Name:

Thank you for the OED [bournem]. I feel like not having that thing is like not having my right hand (do note, I am left handed, so it could be worse).

Here's the deal [backes], Chiro- just means hand, and that's true in both words (it's from Greek kheir. . .whatever). However, in chiropractic the last part comes from Greek praktikos, which just means 'practical.' So I guess it's somebody who cracks your bones with their hands. In the bat one though, the last part of the word -pter is from the Greek word for wing (as in pterodactyl, which I think means leathery wing, or really gross wing made of skin or something, I don't remember the second part for sure). So, bats are called (in the New Latin), hand-wings. So the two words are related, unfortunately the dictionary I have access to does not ellaborate as to exactly why a chiropracter has hands in the name. It seems like the word just means hand-user I would think that could mean a lot of things.

***

Plan of:
oneil
Last log in:
Fri February 6th, 7:22 AM
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Fri February 6th, 7:37 AM
Name:
What did you think of the play, Mr. Littlejeans?

[backes] you'll love this. They are related, but not how you think. "Chiro" (or cheiro, apparently) comes from the Greek meaning "hand"; "ptera" from the Greek meaning winged (Greek scholars, forgive me, I know little Latin and less Greek; all these forms and information come from the OED). So bats were named for their funky wings. Chiropractor therefore means, "to practice (or heal) with hands." Which is to say, aside from the fact that bats have funny hands and that humans have hands with which they can sort out people's back problems, the words are unrelated. No one ever noticed something particularly human about bat skulls and gave them a name meaning "carriers of human-ish skulls."

But what *I* learned from all this is that Chiro is also the root of the word surgeon. So now we know.

***

Plan of:
gruener
Last log in:
Fri February 6th, 11:15 PM
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Fri February 6th, 10:29 PM
Name:


to jump on the [heroldk]/[bournem]/[lindley]/[backes]/[oneil] train--because it's fun:

so cheir (or hand), in addition to being the root in chiropractor and chiroptera, is also the root in chirographer--a specialist in penmanship. which is not exactly like, but similar to, a calligrapher (root word kallos, or beauty)--a specialist in *beautiful* penmanship.

which, in turn, is *some*what akin to a callipygian--someone with beautiful buttocks (the new word being pyge, or buttocks).

which finally takes us (via aNOTHER new root word, kakos, meaning bad, or harsh) to my very very favorite greekism, cacopygian. Or, someone with ugly, unshapely buttocks.

cacopygian. cacopygian.

.....

oh, and one more:

nostos is the greek word for a return (home) and algos is the word for pain. put em together and whaddya get?

***

Plan of:
backes
Last log in:
Thu February 6th, 11:26 PM
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Thu February 6th, 11:52 PM
Name:
Precipitation Envy

Thanks, [lindley], [bailey1], [bournem], [oneil], & [gruener]! I got the pter/pterodactyl connection on my way to work this morning. Except a dactyl is a metrical foot (three syllables: accented, un, un, like "elephant"). Hmmm....

***

Plan of:
lindley
Last log in:
Sat February 7th, 12:44 PM
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Sat February 7th, 3:10 AM
Name:

OK [backes] and [gruener], I was intrigued enough by [backes]'s mentioning of datyl being a metrical foot to force me to look it uup too. . .perhaps you've already done this, but I thought I'd share anyway. Dactyl comes from the Greek word daktulos meaning finger. It can mean this in English too. (In the word pterodactyl it means winged finger, or digit, I'm assuming due to their unique, i.e., gross, wing structure.) My guess is that it can also refer to the metrical foot, which is comprised of three sylables, because their are three joints on any given finger. But alas, since I don't have access to the OED. . .Oh, and to tie dactyl and -graph, a dactylographer is someone who studies fingerprints.

Also, you might be interested that the -pter suffix occurs in another, far more oft used word--helicopter. The first part of the word is from helix, meaning spiral (I assume that the -o- is just a sort of bridging vowel).

***

Plan of:
backes
Last log in:
Sun February 8th, 11:34 PM
Last update:
Sun February 8th, 11:41 PM
Name:
Precipitation Envy


Continuing the linguistic saga of bats... (and here it gets really weird!)....

from the OED entry on BAT:

[1535 COVERDALE, Molles and Backes; 1590 Genev., To the mowles and to the backes; 1611 Moules and battes.] 1414 BRAMPTON Penit. Ps. lxxx. 31 A backe, that flyith be nyt. c1440 Promp. Parv. 21 Bakke (v.r. bak), flyinge best (v.r. fleynge byrde), vespertilio. [...] 1496 Dives & Paup. (W. de W.) III. viii. 144 Lyke oules & backes whiche hate the daye & loue the nyght. a1500 in Wülcker Voc. /761 Hic vespertilio, hec lucifuga, a bake. 1509 FISHER Wks. I. (1876) 87 More louynge derkenes than lyght, lyke vnto a beest called a backe. 1513 DOUGLAS Æneis XIII. Prol. 33 Vpgois the bak wyth hir pelit ledderyn flycht. 1552 HULOET, Reremowse, or backe whiche flyeth in the darcke, nycteris. c1554 CROKE Ps. (1844) 20 The backe or owle, That lurketh yn an olde house syde. 1607 Schol. Disc. agst. Antichr. II. vi 71 To cast them to the Moules and to the backes. [1808 JAMIESON s.v. Bak, The modern name in Sc. is backie-bird. 1863 Prov. Danby, Back-bearaway, the bat, or rere mouse.]


The plural of bat used to be BACKES??? What??

Caleb [Lindley], can you explain the transformation from bak/backe to bat for me, please? I'm afraid I blanked all that out, on the suggestion of my therapist (Dr. J. Beam).

***

Plan of:
lindley
Last log in:
Mon February 9th, 2:44 AM
Last update:
Mon February 9th, 3:10 AM
Name:


Whoa, Molly [backes], that's . . . I don't know what. Here's what the OED etymology section said:
The mod. bat, found c 1575, takes the place of ME. bakke, apparently from Scand.; cf. Da. aften-bakke ‘evening-bat,’ ODa. nath-bakkæ, OSw. (Ihre) natt-backa ‘night-bat.’ Swedish dial. have also natt-batta. natt-blacka: with the latter cf. Icel. ler-blaka ‘bat,’ lit. ‘leather-flutterer,’ f. blaka ‘to flap, wave, flutter with wings,’ whence it has been suggested that bakke, backa have lost an l; but as the l does not appear in the OSw. and ODa. forms above, this is very unlikely. The med.L. blatta, blacta, batta, glossed ‘lucifuga, vespertilio, vledermus’ (Diefenbach Suppl. to Du Cange) = cl. L. blatta ‘an insect that shuns the light’ (blattæ lucifugæ, Vergil) ‘cockroach, moth,’ is distinct in origin, but may have influenced the English change to bat; evidence is wanting. Back- in comb., backie-bird, bawkie-bird still survive in north Eng. and Sc.

And, if I'm not mistaken, all that golbidy gook means that they don't know either.
If you want, I could give you my own personal musings on the topic, whatever that's worth.

What I find interesting is that Old Swedish had both bakka and batta, just in different dialects, which means it could be the same in English (they are two voiceless stop consonants after all). I also find it interesting that the Old Icelandic and the Latin both have a bl- thing going on, and the OIce ends with a [k] and the Latin with a [t]. I was going to make speculations about the words being cognate, but I'm either full of crap or lack the necessary education to even begin to go down that road.

Beyond that, it would appear as though you have stumbled upon a mystery that requires a considerable amount of research. I don't suppose there are any family stories about the origins of your surname?

Wednesday Night


Yeah, Massachusetts!!
"The history of our nation has demonstrated that separate is seldom, if ever, equal. For no rational reason the marriage laws of the commonwealth discriminate against a defined class; no amount of tinkering with language will eradicate that stain. The [civil unions] bill would have the effect of maintaining and fostering a stigma of exclusion that the Constitution prohibits."


***

As I was driving home from work tonight, I was brooding about this mistake I made at work a few weeks ago. It wasn’t a big thing, but I was chastising myself for being such an idiot – until I realized that there’s no reason I should have known better. As I have mentioned before, the place where you grow up determines certain assumptions you make, assumptions that don’t get challenged until you move to a place with a different set. I find myself defending certain ideas I have and choices I make by saying, “Well, in Wisconsin/Iowa it’s this way....” Sometimes I feel like Rose from that old show The Golden Girls, who would always defend herself with stories about Lake Wobegon or wherever she was from. And so, for your reading pleasure, I present:



ERRORS AND ASSUMPTIONS I'VE MADE IN NEW MEXICO, or MIDWESTERN MISTAKES


1. If you address a letter to someone’s house, it will reach them.

This is the mistake I made at work: a few weeks ago, we were sending out a mailing to people in the East Mountains, asking them to come to a meeting on February 12. There were probably 35 people on our list, most of whom hadn’t listed their mailing addresses. Without putting much thought into it, I looked up the names in the East Mountain phone book, and only called people for their addresses if they were unlisted in the phone book. Last week, about 10 of the letters I’d sent out were returned, and my boss was pretty irritated. “You can’t send mail to a person’s address,” she said, using a tone generally reserved for the very young, the very old, or the developmentally disabled. “No one gets mail at their house; everyone has post office boxes.” “Um, sorry,” I said, feeling stupid. It wasn’t until tonight that it hit me: why the hell would I know that? I come from a magical land where people either get mail delivered to their houses, or else list their mailing address in the phone book.

2. “I know how to drive in the snow! No problem!”

When I moved out here, I had eight years of winter driving experience under my belt. I had driven through some pretty freaking horrible snowstorms, including one so bad it took me nearly four hours to drive the 60 miles from Iowa City to Grinnell (we left at 2:30 am and didn’t get to Grinnell until 6 in the morning), with visibility at, like, two feet and semi-trucks jack-knifed on the sides of the highway every quarter mile. But. One big difference between driving in an Iowa winter and driving in a New Mexico winter is that if you go off the road in Iowa, chances are good that you’ll land in a cornfield. Whereas if you go off the road in New Mexico, chances are good that you’ll go plunging down some ridiculously steep embankment and end up bruised and broken hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet below at the bottom of the canyon.

3. Gigantic jeeps, trucks, and SUVs are evil.

Modification: gigantic jeeps, trucks, and SUVs are evil if they’re only manifestations of a suburbanite’s wish to pretend her life is far less tame than it seems. I’d guess that 96% of the people in this country who drive these monstrous machines do not actually need them. However, they’re necessary if you live at the top of a mountain and need lots of horsepower and four-wheel drive simply to get home at night.

4. “You don’t need a coat today.” Pt. 1

This continues to trick me: in the mornings when I take the dog out, I decide how many layers I’ll need for the day based on how cold it is in my backyard. Please note that, for the most part, this is a totally viable strategy in this midwest. However, the weather in Albuquerque is often completely different from the weather in the East Mountains. Tonight, for example, I left work early because it was a right blizzard in Tijeras, with big wet snowflakes, slick roads, and crappy visibility. This weather bothered me for all of six minutes on the drive home, until I came far enough down the mountain to be back in the drier, warmer climate of the city. Though I had been freezing my face off all day at work, once home I took the dog for a walk and didn’t even need a coat. Go figure.

5. “You don’t need a coat today.” Pt. 2

A few weeks ago, my new intern and I were strolling from the parking lot to the Talking Talons center, enjoying the balmy spring air and sunshine. At least, I was strolling and enjoying the day. My intern was hunched over and shivering, cursing the bitter winter. After a minute or so of listening to her bitching, I finally snapped, “Oh my god, woman, it’s in the mid-50s!” She nodded miserably. “I’m wearing thermal underwear under my jeans and sweatshirt and jacket, and I’m still c-o-o-o-o-o-o-l-d!”

6. “You don’t need a coat today.” Pt. 3

This weekend, I was at a conference in Santa Fe and it was legitimately cold. The temperature was in the teens, and it was snowing and windy. Leaving the hotel for the day, me: thick wool socks, boots, long corduroy pants, a teeshirt, cardigan sweater, long wool coat, scarf, gloves. Leaving the hotel for the day, my intern: open-toed sandals (!!!), no socks or stockings, thin linen pants, short-sleeved silk blouse, loosely-knit cardigan sweater. And that’s all. Being the paranoid midwesterner that I am, I usually have one or more sweatshirts, hats, pairs of gloves, extra socks, boots, and sometimes jackets in the back of my vehicle (in case I get in a blizzard and have to exist in my car for a few days, or dig myself out of a snowbank, or stand around talking to police officers after someone slides into my truck, of course). Raising an eyebrow, I offered my intern an extra jacket and pair of gloves – “You’re welcome to take an extra sweatshirt as well, if you’d like.” Understand that this was just a light unlined spring jacket, good for keeping out wind and rain, but not much else. Imagine my surprise when I came back to the truck to find that my intern had put the jacket on but had taken the sweater off and was throwing it into the truck. “Don’t you want to wear the jacket over your sweater?” “Oh, no, that’s not a sweater, that’s my winter coat.”

7. Given the state’s rich Spanish heritage and bilingual nature, places with Spanish names have Spanish pronunciations.

WRONG! Even though I studied Spanish for more than five years and had a good enough grasp on the language to get by in Costa Rica, I never guess the correct pronunciations of towns and cities. This week’s example: Malpais. El Malpais National Monument is in New Mexico, and whether it was this area or the Malpais Pueblo in Arizona to which Aldous Huxley refers in Brave New World, I am not certain. However, I am certain that “el malpais” is Spanish for “the badlands.” I was talking about the book this weekend, and said something about the savage from “ell-mal-pie-ees” when a certain snooty someone jumped in and corrected me. “You mean Maal-pie.” “Oh, is that how you say it? I just assumed the Spanish pronunciation.” “It’s not Spanish, it’s Indian,” says my know-it-all friend, as if I am the most retarded person she’s ever met. [For the record, I looked it up, and it is Spanish, and I actually pronounced it correctly.]

Other cities I’ve pronounced incorrectly:
Amarillo, TX (Spanish: ahm-ah-REE-o, Texan: Aa-mah-RILL-ah)
Santa Fe, NM (Spanish: san-tah FAY, New Mexican: SANNA-fay)
Madrid, NM (Spanish: mah-DRID, New Mexican: MAD-rid)
And so it goes....

The thing that really bothers me, though, is when people are really condescending and snotty about my incorrect pronunciations. I mean, for god’s sake, if someone from New Mexico were visiting me in Wisconsin and wanted to go to Prairie du Shee-ehn, I wouldn’t be laughing at them, I’d be laughing at us. That’s Prairie doo SHEEN, friend.

8. “Up” and “North” are the same direction.

Because Albuquerque is built at the base of the Sandia mountains, the entire city slopes eastward. Thus, if you tell someone to go up the street, they’ll take you literally, and go east. Naturally, “down” and “west” are synonymous as well.


***

Of course, this list is only a small sampling of all the ways I make a fool of myself here. One day, perhaps, I'll make a list of all the ways a person can kill themselves out here (spider bites and mouse poop come to mind, not to mention the plague), or all the words that have different meanings (hot sauce, patio, weather).

For now though, I'll leave it be, with this post-script only:

If you want to make fun of someone from Wisconsin, it's funny to mock their exaggerated long o's (AriZOna, MinneSOta) or talk about cheeseheads, hockey, hot-dish, Lutherans, or Mary Jo's lemon bars.

It is not funny to say "Wis-CAN-sen! Wis-CAN-sen!" because NO ONE IN WISCONSIN ACTUALLY SAYS THAT! Everyone from Wisconsin pronounces the word like it's spelled: Wis-con-sin. The only people in the whole goddamn world who say "Wis-CAN-sen" are the idiots from everywhere else, who think they're so funny by misprounouncing the name of the state in a completely inaccurate manner.

Arrrgh!


However, if you want to make a Wisconsinite fly into a homicidal rage, I've got just the ticket....

In my world, it's the weekend! Yayster!

And here's why: In the last three days, I have managed to clock in 30 hours. Yesterday I was at the center at 7:30 am, and today I was in at 7:00 (which means that I have to leave my house at 6:35 AM -- my commute's been longer since the cops have focused their attentions on speeders on I-40 in the canyon between Albuquerque and Tijeras). It goes without saying that I am exhausted. I have to spend my entire weekend (Saturday - Monday) in Santa Fe at a conference (LAME!), and so I am taking tomorrow off to give myself a little weekday weekend.

***


Today I learned a lot about bats!

For example:
-- Without bats, we wouldn't have tequila, for bats are the only pollinators of the agave plant
-- Bats are number ten on the list of most common carriers of rabies. Number one is pet dogs. You hear that, people? You are more likely to catch rabies from your dog than from a bat!
-- There are more than 1,100 species of bats in the world, from the largest (the gigantic flying fox of the South Pacific, with a wingspan of six feet) to the smallest (the bumble-bee bat, which weighs less than a penny).
-- Of these, only a very few can alight from the ground. Because they don't have feathers, most bats can't get enough lift to take off from the ground, which is why they hang upside down.
-- When you see scary bats in movies, they're FRUIT bats! They're hungry for rotting fruit, not for blood.
-- There are three species of vampire bats, all of which live in Africa. These bats drink the blood of cows and chickens, but only take two teaspoons of blood out of the animal (at the most), and the donor almost never notices.
-- Vampire bats are helping humanity, because their saliva contains an anti-coagulant that's been beneficial to people with heart problems.
-- Bats aren't blind. They have perfectly good vision. Many of them do echolocate, but they use this tool in addition to their sight.
...and lots more!

***

One particularly horrifying article in Mother Jones is about Grover Norquist, who is the "national ward boss for the right."

"We plan to pick up another five seats in the Senate and hold the House through 2012... and rather than negotiate with the teachers' unions and the trial lawyers and the various leftist interest groups, we intend to break them."


Awesome.


Or this:
Norquist calls it the "Leave-Us-Alone Coalition," a grouping of gun owners,
the Christian right, homeschoolers, libertarians, and business leaders that he has almost single-handedly managed to unite. The common vision: an America in which the rich will be taxed at the same rates as the poor, where capital is freed from government constraints, where government services are turned over to the free market, where the minimum wage is repealed, unions are made irrelevant, and law-abiding citizens can pack handguns in every state and town. "My ideal citizen is the self-employed, homeschooling, IRA-owning guy with a concealed-carry permit," says Norquist. "Because that person doesn't need the goddamn government for anything."


Of course -- whether intentional or not -- he says the ideal citizen is a guy. Because I'm thinking that women still need the goddamn government to protect them. As well as, you know, poor people, sick people, old people, young people, people with different skin colors, and people with different religious beliefs, not to mention wildlife and the few wild places left in this country. It hurts my heart. The scariest thing is that this man is extremely powerful in Washington. Powerful like Karl Rove wants to be his BFF.

Powerful like

"At Rove's request, Norquist flew to Austin for a private meeting with the
then Texan governor and presented the agenda he wanted George W. Bush to back:
broad income-tax cuts, school choice, the privatization of Social Security, tort reform, and free trade."

Powerful like

"Norquist's goal is nothing less than a well-oiled national, state, and local
political machine that can roll over and crush the last few bastions of Democratic Party support."

Powerful scary.

***

On a slightly more cheerful note, this article about a man who works undercover as a car salesman. It's extremely long, but very compelling. The author describes the psychology of sales, as well as the spooky beer-can-crushing testosteroney atmosphere of the high-volume dealers. If you're not so interested in the narrative, you can skip to the end, where he sums up some of the things he learned that might help you not to get totally screwed next time you buy a car.

***

Today at Crossroads (the alternative high-school):

Me: (after staring at the classroom map of Africa for the last five minutes of class) Hey Mr. Bond, that's a pretty old map there, huh?

Mr. Bond: Why?

Me: Um, Zaire??

Mr. Bond: (smiling) Whatever do you mean, Molly?

Me: I'm pretty sure it's been the Democratic Republic of the Congo since I was in high school.

Mr. Bond: Do you know that in seven years, you're the only one who's ever noticed that?

Random Student: Dude, you're smart!


Of course, I admitted that I wouldn't know anything about Africa if my best friend hadn't moved there. Thanks, Ali!

***

Along these lines, I'm always looking for good books about Africa. Any suggestions?

my list so far:

Gordon, Sheila. Waiting for the Rain.
Jones, Ann. Looking for Lovedu.
Kingsolver, Barbara. The Poisonwood Bible.
Malan, Rian. My Traitor's Heart.
Mathabane, Mark. Kaffir Boy.

...and I've been meaning to read Achebe's Things Fall Apart since I was 15! Maybe that's what I'll do over my "weekend."

***

And finally, apparently my mother was educated by the Sisters of Loretto! Who knew??


Happy weekend!

oh my gosh...

It's SNOWING!!!

***

The other day, I went to this amazing Chinese restaurant called the China King, which has the biggest buffet ever, and you get unlimited trips to the buffet for five dollars. Jennie and I have been there several times (she took me there for lunch my last day at work before Christmas), because there's nothing Jennie likes better than lots of inexpensive, good food.

At the end of the meal, of course, the waiter brought us fortune cookies. I wouldn't say that I'm superstitious, exactly, but I am always on the lookout for signs. Eager to see what the universe had to tell me, I cracked open my cookie.

This was my fortune:
Aunque sea un pequeno regalo significa tanto para alguien hoy.

I stared at it in disbelief. My fortune's in Spanish??

As best I can translate, it means Though it will be a small gift, it will mean a great deal to someone today. Er, or something like that. My Spanish is pretty rusty.

***

So I had this dream in which I gave birth to my second child. I named him Nathan Peter, and he was dark brown (and a little fuzzy). My first child was named Basil, and he was light-colored. Note that my mother's dog is named Basil, and he came first in our family, and my dog, while not named Nathan Peter, is dark brown and fuzzy, and he came second. This makes me think that my unconscious mind confuses babies and puppies.

Anyhow, so I had these babies (puppies) and I took them shopping. At the store, I was carded, and for the life of me I could not get my driver's license out of my wallet. After much struggle, I finally gave the checker my credit card as ID and left. When I got home, I was unloading my truck, and couldn't find my babies (puppies). Note that I expected them to be in the uncovered bed of my truck. I couldn't figure out if I had left them at the store, or if they had blown out of my truck while I was driving.


Moral of the story: Molly Backes is not allowed to have children!

***

I talked to Ila yesterday! As talking to anyone from home does, it made me both happy and sad. Happy, because it's so great to catch up with my far-away friends! And sad, because I wish I were closer, especially when my far-away friends are going through a rough time of it.

Hats off to Ila Grace Gates-Thomas, who is great and who has a pretty live journal about muppets!

***

Kevin just finished his first real collaboration with Zander Cannon (Zander wrote, Kevin drew), called The Mustache and Topcoat Club. Zander is a Grinnell College alum who's also a cartoonist, who also lives in Minneapolis, and who also has a studio in the Handicraft Guild building, but who isn't (strangely enough) related to Kevin.

Several years ago, Kevin had an internship as Zander's assistant, and was able to sneak a few secret messages into Zander's book (with Alan Moore) Smax.

***

In other news, if the classicists just marketed The Metamorphoses as the Days of Our Lives of Ancient Rome, I bet a lot more kids would go for it. Seriously, the plot twists are weirder and the characters more impulsive and insane than the soaps could even dream. Days, for example, has never had a character be cursed with never-ending hunger so that he was forced to eat his way through his fortune, then sell his daughter into slavery to buy more food, and finally eat his own flesh.

***


You know the scene in movies where through a series of hijinks (usually but not always involving clueless people, like dads or kids, being left in charge of the house while mom's away) suddenly the washing machine or dishwasher goes crazy and starts spewing huge mountains of soap suds and water all over the room, eventually filling the entire room with bubbles?








Yeah, well. Apparently that really happens.

Monday Afternoon

Not quite 3:30 pm. I'm in Studio 207 in the Handicraft Guild Building in downtown Minneapolis, MN -- home of artist Kevin Cannon. [Kevin wants me to put a link here to his newest cartoon, DOBEY! -- Apparently, this is just the first of many episodes in the life of Dobey.... call the trumpeters, rejoice.] Just returned from a lunch near the window in a third floor niche overlooking 7th Street. Minneapolis today is a lovely snowglobe of quiet flakes and soft lights. In other words, home.

I looked forward to this moment for months: caught between the frozen earth and the great gray sky, surprised by sudden snow. It happened this morning, as Kevin and I walked to the ochre bricks and wooden doors of the Handicraft Guild Building. Snow.

It has snowed several times while I've been home -- when I was in Grinnell, I stood outside of Steiner at 3:00 in the morning and willed the tiny snowflakes to grow in the light of the old-fashioned streetlamps; when I was in Oregon, an entire day of tiny snowflakes outside my livingroom window; when I was driving home from Ila's house on Gorham, mentally beseeching the falling ice to switch to snow -- but this morning was the first perfect snowfall of the season (for me at least).

The last two weeks have been full of wonderful people (though sadly there are a few terribly important people I missed -- you know who you are) and great moments. Last night for example, sitting on the couch between Carrie and Kevin, laughing at some lame joke carried all the way from gourmet house... or sitting with Cindy and Memo as they opened their cactus... driving on Lincoln Road with my sister, talking about old loves and new lives... eating gross fast food breakfast with Ali on Summer Street -- and breakfast at the New West Side with Ali and Adam and Larry -- and breakfast with Jean in her sunny little kitchen -- and breakfast this morning with Kevin and Kate at Pannekoeken Huis, where the wait staff apparently has to sing out "Pannekoeken!!" every time they deliver one to a table.... The problem with all this, of course, is that I start to wonder what I'm doing 1500 miles away from the people I love best in the world.

One important thing I have realized coming home is that I can't see Oregon or Madison or Grinnell through new eyes. Wherever I look, I see layers -- I see things not only as they are now, but as they were when I was 21, and 18, and in Oregon, as they were when I was 9 and 12 and 4. My whole adult life, I've been searching for the eyes of a new writer -- looking for ways to make the world seem new again, as it was when I first picked up a pen and realized I could make the world my own through words. At home, I've lost the ability to be happily surprised, lost the ability to see the small streets of Oregon with wonder. In the west, I have new vision. In New Mexico, I have moments of sparkling clarity, where everything I see is illuminated.

As Mr. Root once told me, "The trick is to find that at home."

Wednesday Night

Well, we've always wondered, and now we know:
The Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow

***

T-minus SIX DAYS before I leave for the midwest! Needless to say, I am very excited about my imminent departure, and can't wait to fill my eyes with the faces of my beloved Northern Folk (as if you were a tribe of dwarves with hairy feet, no?) in Iowa, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. I plan to arrive in Iowa late Wednesday night (Dec 17) or early Thursday morning (the 18th) & stay until the 20 or 21. I'll be Wisconsin-Bound on the weekend, and will of course make a short trip up to the TC in MN between Xmas and the new year.

One funny thing is that my boss can never remember which state I'm from, and keeps telling people I'm going home to Michigan or Minnesota. Lots of native New Mexicans seem to believe that everything above the Mason-Dixon is basically Canada (including New York, Miss Brown). Living in different regions in the country helps me to remember/realize how regional we all are. When I lived in Boston, I heard "I've only ever been on the coasts" over and over again. Far worse, of course, was the "I have a hard time believing that people actually have lives out there!" On the other hand, there are a lot of midwestern transplants out here, so there's almost always someone with whom I can talk about Precipitation Envy.

....Which is to say that I am jealous of all of you snuggling under blankets of snow!! It did snow in the East Mountains the other night, so I got to make a snowball yesterday morning and go on a snowwalk with Jennie & Hito in the afternoon, but it has not snowed at all in ABQ. Furthermore, though the parking lot was still rather icy today, it was warm enough in Moriarty to go without a coat this afternoon. As usual.

I've had to supplement the lack of snow in my life with this snowglobe. I'm not even going to admit how much it amuses me, and for how long. I especially like it when the Christmas Carols are interrupted by screams.

***

In other news, the reports of my father's death are greatly exaggerated. Apparently he was listed as deceased in a recent edition of his fraternity's newsletter, so now people are calling him up to ask, "Dude, are you, like, DEAD?"

***

It's been a Heatherrific week! I spent most of Monday night talking to Miss Heather James, the brilliant young writer and aspiring doctor, catching up on years of gossip about friends and men and tatoos and, you know, Jebus. Then today, I heard from Miz Heather Moore, who just finished reading The Giver. Fun! I look forward to seeing her & the big, bad 8th graders at Berg Middle School (next week!!).....

Friday morning

This is my life right now:
It's 8:24 am on a Friday morning in December, and I'm happily breakfasting on leftover chicken enchiladas with blue corn tortillas & green chile from this tiny little mom'n'pop place whose existence is a secret carefully and jealously guarded by locals. The dog is sleeping in a patch of sunlight on my bed, and I just broke the second bowl in under a week. The first one I didn't even mind breaking, because it made such a satisfying smash on our Mexican tiles, but the second one just made a thud on the linoleum. I'm listening to an old Hot Dish show -- 7 March 2002, I believe (also known as the "animal episode") -- on tape. "Hot Dish for Lunch! (with Mary and Molly)" was my radio show -- with co-DJ Mary Hoeschen of Duluth, MN -- on Grinnell's radio station, KDIC. Happily, I have most of our shows on tape, and have taken to listening to them on bleary-eyed mornings. I'd much rather listen to senior-year-Mary and senior-year-Molly (and sometimes special guest stars s-y-Dan, s-y-George, s-y-Kevin, and Beck) joke about the West Side Diner, Norweigan statues in northern Minnesota, the Pub, evading campus security, tiger alarm clocks, and other such nonsense than listen to shrill "shock jocks" on crappy morning radio. Any day. Of course, I prefer the selection of music that Mary & I played to the "selection" most radio stations play (with the exception, perhaps, of WMMM in Madison and KUNI in central Iowa). Plus, almost all of my Hot Dish tapes has the first ten minutes of Chris Rathjen's & Nick Wagner's show, which had a ridiculously long name -- "Chris & Nick's something something Smileytime de Vida, (fiesta extravaganza bonanza ole!)." Their show came after ours, and always made me laugh. Every Thursday after our show, Mary and I would go to Dairy Queen for lunch, then I'd drop Mary off at work and go to Bob's Underground Cafe. I was the manager of Bob's then, and on Thursdays I'd meet the delivery guy, inventory & put away the week's supply of Tofutti Cuties & other organic stuff, and do the bank from the previous night -- all the while listening to Chris & Nick's show, sometimes laughing out loud, often calling in to joke with them.

Anyhow, to all the angry people who emailed me saying "Update your goddamn blog!" I extend my sincerest apologies.

Oh, and CONGRATULATIONS HEATHER JAMES for surviving the big NaNoWriMo challenge! Very proud of you, darling.

So it's December, the special time of year when you can't even get an oil change without having to suffer through yet another rendition of "Santa Baby" or "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer." I made the mistake of saying something at work about how it still seemed a little early for so much xmas, and one of the thrift store girls stared at me in disbelief. "Molly, there are only 3 shopping weekends before Christmas." Uh, sorry.

Here's the problem: it's too warm to be almost-christmas! The mornings usually start off with a chill, but by mid-afternoon it's almost always warm enough to run around in a tee-shirt. A tee-shirt! It's not time for Christmas until it's too cold outside to do anything but run from your car to whatever building is closest, even if it's your neighbor's house. My northern friends keep telling me about snow, and I am one jealous girl. It snowed once, about three weeks ago, but only in the mountains, and it all melted the next day.

However, I did go to Colorado for Thanksgiving, and got to play in a little bit of snow there. The drive to Pagosa Springs from Albuquerque was just amazing. It's only 200 miles -- less than the distance from Grinnell to Oregon -- and (no offense, Iowa and Wisconsin) it's a far prettier drive than the 240 mile stretch of 151 I know by heart. Driving north on 84, you pass through chain after chain of snow-capped mountains, which grow ever more wild and breathtaking as you go. The land around Abiquiu, too -- the part of New Mexico where Georgia O'Keeffe lived at her "Ghost Ranch" -- is just stunning, with its rocky cliffs striped in reds & oranges. And then the last hour of the drive -- from Chama to Pagosa -- was just incredibly picturesque (in the old-fashioned sense of the word), and for a while I thought of the Romantics & their sense of the sublime --- until I caught myself & forced myself to think along less intellectual lines.

I have more to report, of course, but I need to wrap this up or I'll be late to the day-long meeting I have to attend today. BO-ring!

Until next time, here's Anna Karenina (Or, Like, Most Of It), a sestina.

Monday morning

After an extremely busy week, I get the morning off. Even though my boss insisted that I not come in to the office this morning, I still feel naughty & indulgent, like I’m playing hooky. For a job that was supposed to be part time and give me lots of time to write, it’s taking up a huge amount of room in my brain. Last night before I went to sleep my last thought was of the office, and my first thought this morning was the same. Arrgh.

Saturday was our big Winter Wildlife Family Fun Fair in Moriarty, co-sponsored by the Crossroads Program (my high school students in Moriarty!), the Torrance Project Office, and Talking Talons. It was smaller than we had hoped, but went off beautifully overall. I was particularly stressed about it, because my role was twofold: not only did I have a huge part in planning (we’ve been working on this event as long as I’ve been with TT) and running the event itself, but also I was co-leading one of the breakout workshops. My co-presenter was a man with whom I’d never before presented, nor had I ever seen him speak publicly, so our plan of “structured winging it” made me anxious. However, he’s from Duluth, and lived in Madison for a while, so whenever he’d notice that I was getting overwrought, he’d say something about cheese curds or Lutheran potlucks, and I’d calm down. Our session must have gone well, because afterward a woman from the New Mexico Department of Health came up to me and asked if I was available to speak at conferences and if so, could she have my card? I was flattered and told her that of course I’d love to, but laughed at the idea that I’d have a card.

Last week was also our big Caring Community meeting, with a terribly small attendance due to the weather (more about that in a moment). However, the mayor of Tijeras, Gloria Chavez, did show up, so the meeting wasn’t a total bust. Last week was also our first day of teaching out at Moriarty Middle School with the Crossroads kids, which also went well – though it means that from now on I’ll need to leave my house at 6:45 am EVERY WEDNESDAY until school’s over. Awesome.

Enough about work. Last Thursday was the first big snowstorm of the year! Of course, it only snowed in the East Mountains; in Albuquerque it was just another rainy day. This is something I still haven’t gotten used to: that the weather in my backyard does not always prepare me for the weather where I work. For you Wisconsinites, it is as if you leave your house in Oregon where it’s in the 50s and raining, and drive to Madison where it’s in the low 30s and blizzarding. You spend all day in Madison, consumed with the blizzard – of course it’s the main thing everyone’s talking about, because they’re all so worried about the conditions of the roads on the way home – and then you drive back to Oregon at night, where it’s just been drizzling all day and most people don’t even realize that it’s been snowing in Madison. It’s so strange!

Another thing that I find strange is the way people talk about weather: “If there’s weather tomorrow we may not be able to go out to Moriarty.” “Expect a call from me if there’s weather, because I may not make it to the meeting.” What? In my mind, there’s always weather. It may be bad or good, hot or cold, sunny or cloudy, but it’s always there, right? Isn’t weather just a word that describes the atmospheric conditions?

I tried to explain this to Danielle, and she said, “Yes, but when people say ‘weathering’ they mean ‘getting through something bad,’ and therefore weather is bad.”

I said, “No, ‘weathering’ is a clipped form of the expression ‘weathering the storm,’ and ‘the storm’ is understood when you say ‘weathering.’

She said, “Okay, but whenever you talk about the chance of weather, you mean bad weather.”

I said, “If the weather’s good this weekend, we’ll have a picnic. If the weather’s warm tomorrow, we’ll go swimming.”

Things nerds argue about.

***

On another note entirely, in a recent issue of the Oregon Observer, there is an article about a girl who is a senior at OHS and is being allowed to stage a full-length original musical there. How cool is that? Apparently, this musical even has – gasp – adult issues like homosexuality and alcoholism! Amazing! The thing about the article that most struck me, though, was an aside about what this girl (I believe her name is Katrina Harms) does when she’s not directing and producing an original musical. Among other things, she’s the editor of The Chatauqua, Oregon’s very own literary magazine. The Chatauqua!! Its ongoing existence is startling and wonderful. Founded in the spring of 1995 by a small group of students (including but perhaps not limited to Mike O’Brien ‘96, Adam Waskowski ‘96, Davey Pascoe ‘96, Ian Honeyman ‘96, and myself), The Chatauqua was always something of an underground paper. We had an advisor (Leyla Sanyer) mostly as a formality, and the editor-in-chief was a position more like the papacy than the presidency in its appointment. Mike was the official editor-in-chief (I believe) that first year with Ian or Adam doing layout (I think), and when they graduated Katy Powers ‘98 and I took over all aspects of production, from soliciting submissions to selecting contents to layout and distribution. When we graduated, we placed our baby in the hands of Catie Honeyman ‘00, who passed it on to Caitlyn Kiley. I was so excited to see that The Chatauqua still lives, I felt compelled to write a note to the current editor, care of Oregon High School.

***

Delving into the world of politics, I have some interesting links I’ve been saving. First, of course, there’s this photo of George Bush signing the so-called partial-birth abortion ban into law. It’s on the White House’s own website, and I think it’s a very striking picture, considering the fact that the law mainly affects women. Where are they, George? In the kitchen where they belong?

Oh America, you sure are of (a small number of) the people, by the (primarily male, white) people, for the (rich and powerful) people. For those of you who were still thinking this is a democracy, this article should sort things out for you. Even (other-dimension president) Al Gore is speaking out these days – in this article he accuses the administration of Orwellian tactics. When we lived in Boston, Ali and I saw a bumper sticker that said, “Big Brother is my cousin!” Perhaps it should have said, “Big Brother is my president!” Not that I’m bitter, of course. Even more shocking than Gore’s criticisms of Bush is this, originally published in Time (in 1998), in which George Bush Sr writes about why we shouldn’t invade Iraq. Recently, it mysteriously disappeared from Time’s archives. Hmmmm.....

Now, if you’re uncertain about which non-Bush candidate you should support, this candidate selector quiz may help you. I’m sure Dad will be disappointed to see that my number 2 match (after my number 1 “ideal candidate”) is not Wesley Clark....

My results:
1. Your ideal theoretical candidate. (100%)
2. Dean, Gov. Howard, VT - Democrat (83%)
3. Kucinich, Rep. Dennis, OH - Democrat (75%)
4. Edwards, Senator John, NC - Democrat (74%)
5. Gephardt, Rep. Dick, MO - Democrat (69%)
6. Green Party Candidate (66%)
7. Clark, Retired General Wesley, AR - Democrat(65%)
8. Socialist Candidate (59%)
9. Kerry, Senator John, MA - Democrat (56%)
10. Sharpton, Reverend Al - Democrat (50%)
11. Lieberman, Senator Joe, CT - Democrat (44%)
12. Libertarian Candidate (36%)
13. LaRouche, Lyndon H. Jr. - Democrat (32%)
14. Moseley-Braun, Former Senator Carol, IL - Democrat (17%)
15. Bush, President George W. - Republican (14%)
16. Phillips, Howard - Constitution (8%)
17. Hagelin, Dr. John - Natural Law (4%)

***

Recently, I pulled out Ann Harleman’s Bitter Lake, one of the books I go back to again and again, and out fell a sheet of paper covered with sentences like these:
“Molly is a wonderful companion.”
“Molly is in isolation now so we have to wear gowns and gloves whenever we are in the room with her.”
“Molly is extremely smart.”
“Molly is a cute blond spayed golden.”
“Molly is bad enough to warrant a strong ‘please stay away’ warning.”
“Molly is quite the case.”
“Molly is a metaphor.”
“Molly is a fox.”
“Molly is short on her rent money.”
“Molly is singled out by her classmates.”
“Molly is great in bed.”
“Molly is at her breaking point.”
“Molly is my mantra.”
“Molly is in a whole different category.”

Upon finding this paper, I was puzzled for a moment until I remembered Googlisms!, which were quite popular when I was a senior in college.

I must confess that many of my links (often the most interesting ones) come from Eric Simpson, who is an English Professor at Grinnell. Normally I’m delighted to follow his links, but I must say that one of his most recent links rather dismayed me. What did other people do when they were your age? Yes, I really needed to know that Eliot wrote The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock at my age....

She's Got Soul

I once (ca. spring 1999) posted on my plan about wanting to lease my soul to Satan for a shiny red truck. Four and a half years later, I have a shiny black truck and still own my soul. But, seeing as how it's worth $62,863.56, if I sell it now I can pay back all my student loans and pay off my shiny black truck.

Should I or shouldn't I? On the one hand, it's not going to get any more pure (currently more pure than 80% of the world's souls) as the days go by & will probably only decrease in value.
On the other hand, some might say that having a soul is important.

How much is your soul worth?

Either You're On The Bus, Or...

Apparently, Tim Kerber's soul is worth nearly twice as much as mine. He wants to know what kind of vehicle he should sell his soul for. I suggest a Jesus Bus, and have found two possibilities (each terrifying in its own way):
The Happy Jesus Bus
The Unhappy Jesus Bus

Oh, most miraculous of mornings! After staying awake far too late last night, I awoke fully an hour before my alarm went off, convinced I'd overslept. I couldn't believe that I could possibly feel this rested on only five hours of sleep -- and yet I felt great! Moreover, once I'd triple-checked my clock, I burrowed deep into my fluffy bed, curled up next to the dog sleeping warm in the patch of sunlight, and slept for another 45 minutes. Oh heaven.

Yesterday, before class, I sat out by the voc/ag building intending to scribble some notes to later paste in my journal. Instead, I wrote a poem:

Moriarty

Moriarty you are flat like Iowa
browner and more dusty, like the moon
holding a footprint in your earth
for hours, days, while grasshoppers
flip across your pebbled face
Moriarty your horizons are voluptuous
and you gaze longingly west, north,
like a young girl, south, east
surrounded by women
You are grass-stained and dirty Moriarty
You have just fallen out of a tree
and stop to take a breath
before bounding away through the desert
bourne aloft on your longing


All the Frank O'Hara I've been reading lately comes through quite clearly. My latest indulgence is Joe LeSueur's Digressions on Some Poems by Frank O'Hara which is more of an auto/biography than a work of literary criticism. It's campy and bitchy and fun, and I'm happy to return to the old circle of familar names: Lee Krasner, Helen Frankenthaler, Larry Rivers, Grace Hartigan, Franz Kline, Elaine de Kooning, Bob Rauschenberg, Kenneth Koch, Mike Goldberg....

***

As you may know, November is National Novel Writing Month, and for the last five years, thousands of people across the world have taken the NaNoWriMo Challenge, in which they try to write a 50,000 word novel between midnight on Halloween and midnight on November 30.

50,000 words in a month! It's taken me 18 months to write my 29,000....

This year, Miss Heather James has thrown herself into the fray, and I am ever so proud of her. You do realize that in order to successfully complete this marathon, this amazing girl will need to write 1,666 words EVERY DAY for the entire month? As someone who has written a great many papers in the last ten years, I can tell you that 1,666 words is about 6 pages, double-spaced. Amazing! Heather and everyone else crazy enough to take part in this all deserve lots of praise and encouragement.

***

If you've lots of extra time on your hands, fill the hours with this link, which is pretty much a long (and strangely addictive) list of things a man and his girlfriend have argued about. Hence the title of the page, Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About.

***

Every night as I drive home, I plan in my head all the things I'll write about: long descriptions of the suddenly wintery moon rising above the cold dark of the mountains against the pale indigo sky, the crisp chill in the air (at last!!), the vibrant golds of a row of aspens down in a little valley along 1-40, the silver of jets taking off each night at dusk, glinting like stars, the warm camraderie of Messiah choir rehearsals (and the odd comfort of returning to the Lutherans -- so many midwesterners!)....

And then I get home, I get distracted, or I try to write and end up waxing poetic about Moriarty instead.

Nevertheless, it's gratifying to know so many of you read this regularly, even if some people believe it's "terribly pedestrian" and "beneath [me]" to keep an online journal. Not to name names, of course....