Last week found me in Utah and on an unexpected hike up Bald Mountain (seen here) in the scenic Uinta Mountain Range.
Going for a hike was so unexpected, in fact, that I had only brought along flip-flops and ended up having to borrow sneakers from a girl's sister whose shoe size as at least comparable to my own.
I enjoy hiking--always have--as long as I can go at my own pace. I like to think of myself as "outdoorsy," but this does not necessarily translate to being in tip-top shape. That is, I like being outdoors, I like climbing around on rocks, I like camping, and I like sunlight and trees and wildflowers and lakes and birds. But that doesn't mean I can sprint up a mountainside without a few--okay, frequent--breaks to catch my breath. (I also like to blame the elevation: Vermillion, SD = 1200 feet; Bald Mountain = nearly 12,000 feet. So there.) So yes, steepish, but not grueling. When it comes right down to it, the hike itself was not too difficult. It's about two miles to the top.
We hit only one snag on our way up: Even though it is mid August, one section of the trail on the south face was covered in snow. We had to hike down on skeet-covered slopes with no sure footholds to skirt it. This wasn't too tricky going up. It was still early enough in the day that the slope was dry, if not a bit too rocky, and we were going uphill. On the way down, however, the day was warmer and some of the snow had melted. The path was still blocked, but the dirt was now mud: slippery, grainy, and slightly more treacherous.
But no one died.
One foot in front of the other, and my two friends and I reached the summit in about 90 minutes (breaks included). My motivation for the last stretch of it was to beat the group of teenage boys hiking right behind us. And yes, we made it to the top first. Go us. And the view was spectacular.
Ah, Christmas Eve, perhaps the very best day of the year, full of that giddy pre-adolescent anticipation that somehow transcends both age and all the ways the past 363 days have, in one way or another, disappointed you. Blessed Christmas spirit.
To accompany my best holiday wishes, to friends and family, allow me to share with you a shot from my neighborhood, all decked out with snow and holly and Christmas cheer. Why look! It's the Johnson boys, skating on the newly frozen pond down by Snowflake Cove. (Careful, boys! The ice is thin.) And there, Eddie Todd and Lizzy Jo, the young lovers skating arm in arm. I hear they'll be announcing their engagement any day now. (Stay warm, you two! Frostbite eats the toes first!)
Oh, here comes Old Man Eli with his chaise and four. That's his son and grandson behind him, and it looks like the Lovejoy family in the back. They must be on their way to deliver presents and sing carols in KandyKane Trailer Park. That Old Man Eli is our very own St. Nick, despite his rheumatism, dementia, and atheism. God bless you, Old Man Eli.
And it looks like Ma has just stepped out into the snow to feed the hens. Eat up, ladies! We ate our last turkey a month ago, so guess who's on the menu tomorrow?
Ooh, over there! You can only just see him, there, lurking behind the house. It's Hobo Joe! Ha ha, not THIS year, Hobo Joe! You'll have to find a different garage to keep warm in this Christmas.
So Merry Christmas from all of us, here is downtown South Poleville. May the next year be even better than last.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Last night, at midnight, I drove home on streets damp with rain. This morning, I pull open my front door and see this. Beautiful, isn't it? You can see the pattern of the door in the snow. I'm guessing it's about seven or eight inches, some of it probably snow drift as opposed to snowfall, but in any case, I don't think I'll be able to leave the house today.
I'm not complaining, just yet. Yesterday was the last day of classes. Going into finals week, I've finished most of my writing, a good deal of grading, and I think I could use a day in the apartment to relax and maybe clean the bathroom. I have a hankering for cider and a book to curl up with that is unrelated to schoolwork. I have a movie from Netflix waiting to be watched.
A week from now, however, I want the roads clear and the sky blue. I want to make it home for Christmas, for my birthday, and weather has a lot to do with whether or not that happens. So go ahead, skies: SNOW! Do your worst today, tomorrow! And then, take a break. Rest. Store your energies and wait until I'm safely away. I'd appreciate it, immensely.
I was told that Vermillion doesn't have autumns. Summer to winter, overnight. That's what I was told.
But Autumn is inching into the room, a little shyly, a little afraid to make eye contact, but we are all noticing. We don't say anything, of course, even to each other, in case she overhears and gets embarrassed by the attention and leaves. We don't approach Autumn either; she's easily frightened off. But we are glad she accepted the invitation.
She has a way about her that's cool and soothing. Her mere presence changes the atmosphere in any room. She isn't here for more than two minutes before she begins to affect Summer, who is trying her darndest to ignore Autumn. Summer has been bragging loudly about herself for months. She one of those loud, flashy types that demands everyone's attention the moment she arrives. She's fun, don't get me wrong, but the kind of fun you can only take for so long before she starts getting under your skin. We keep hinting at her that it's time she move on, but it isn't until Autumn shows up that Summer takes any steps toward the door. She knows Autumn is prettier--all that fiery red hair, those subtle amber eyes, those adorable purple and dark-green scarves--and gets jealous easily. Then Summer throws her little tantrums and rains for a good week or more before stomping out the door.
This always embarrasses Autumn, but if we don't look directly at her, she'll stay for a while longer. She'll move her way quietly around the room, flashes of orange here, golden yellows there, streaks of burning red. When she passes right behind you, you get these whiffs of potpourri. She's like a bouquet of chrysanthemums. And when she walks right in front of you, you get these delightful little shivers running across your skin that make you want to pull on a jacket and build a fire in the hearth.
But like Frost says, nothing gold can stay. Winter is always late, but she never fails to show. Grumpy as always. And Autumn, who had a disagreement with Winter years ago (no one knows the full story), bows her head and before you can beg her to stay, she's out the door.
This, friends, is my new office at USD. Yup. Pretty bare. In many, many ways, it is a vast improvement from my office space at OU. For one, it's all mine. That's right. I'm not sharing and juggling schedules with two other TAs, with six of us crammed in the corner (dubbed the "Muses Alcove") of a room filled with cubicles. So yes, all mine. The office holds three other desks, but each is equipped with a computer, and no one has to share with someone else. Being a PhD student automatically comes with perks.
And that's the other thing: no having to wait for a computer to free up. This one's mine, too. Well, for my sole use, I mean. And that's not too shabby. Sure, the computer is, well, I think it is pretty old. But it runs fine and loads pages quickly enough. My desk boasts lots of drawers, and as I like storing things in drawers, this works out really well for me. You can't see it very well in this shot, but to my right is a closet (this building used to be a dormitory; you can see where there used to be a shower head in the ladies' bathroom) with a bookshelf. Currently, it's filled with the folders and old student papers hoarded by the last TAs to occupy this space, and I'm weeding through them. Over the next four years, I expect I'll fill that shelf.
And the air conditioner works great. I've had to bring a jacket from home just so I don't freeze during office hours.
The downside? Well, it's rather . . . quiet. Compared to my last office--which was always bustling with 20 other TAs going about their day, preparing to teach, meeting with students, watching youtube vids and complaining about this class or that--my office is, well, dead. I mean, it's great for actually getting work done. But my office hours don't coincide with the other PhDs I share that office with, so there's no one to talk to. There's nowhere to go where all the action is.
It's just the first week, I tell myself. Surely things will get hopping at the semester rolls along and need drives the others to campus. We'll see.
I'll take another picture of this office in four years. We'll see how things have changed.
These are jalapeno poppers, baked, not fried. Because I haven't quite figured out my oven yet, they are a little overcooked. Fortunately, they still turned out to be quite delicious--though very, very hot, some bites. You should have seen me separating yolks from whites (enough to make anyone laugh out loud), but I think I've got a better handle on it now. And it was my first time using panko, which was fun. It made the poppers crispy and tasty.
It is, of course, intended to be an appetizer, but appetizers should be fairly quick to prepare, right? These took--baking time included--around an hour and a half, though I admit that I was working pretty slowly. And when you take into account a few oops-moments (e.g. separating out egg whites), it's no wonder I couldn't get them done sooner. In any case, it became my dinner and left my mouth on fire, as a good popper does.
How are these healthy, you ask? Well, using fat free or reduced fat everything sure helps, as well as the baking. The recipe claims that, when all is said and done, one serving is about 220 calories. I'm willing to bet it was a bit more.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
This, my friends, is a ficus bonsai tree I bought to make my home a little more . . . happy. At least, it makes me happy when I look at it. I've set it atop Bookshelf No. 3, which totally changes the ambiance on that wall for the better.
Mom tells me that her mother used to name the plants in her house. That's a little silly, in my opinion. I mean, it's a tree. But then again, I also think that the practice of talking to one's plant is silly. According to some people, however, doing so may actually affect it's growth. I guess that makes sense, on some level. I mean, if plants have spirits, just like animals and people do, who's to say that they don't have spiritual needs, like good music and, erm, good conversation?
So maybe, in addition to blaring Queen, I'll let my little bonsai know how pretty it is, how my day went, my thoughts on human-plant relations, etc. I haven't named it yet; I just call it (lacking originality) "Bonsai." But I'm open to suggestions.
Is it terrible that I had forgotten all about this blog until Holly mentioned it to me last night? Too bad I don't have anything really exciting to write at the moment, or enough time to write about the exciting things that I could write about.
Do you ever find yourself wondering, "Hey, where are all the dead animals?" I mean, the world is full of animals, and given that the majority don't end up in our freezers and are subject to mortality, it follows that the world must be filled with dead animals, too. Right? I mean, the decomposition process is good, but it's not that good. Dead creatures don't just disappear a la Yoda or a goomba.
The most I've seen of actual dead wild animals--exempting anything killed by a car or a shotgun or flying into a window--are dead birds (okay, this one might have flown head-on into a window) and dead squirrels. I actually saw one squirrel drop dead from a branch when I was still living in Ohio. Squirrel heart attack? Acorn poisoning? Squirrelicide? I'll never know.
I'm sure wild life conservationists know. And probably Wikipedia. But I'm just musing here, and a preliminary search of Yahoo answers yielding unsatisfying results .
Over the summer I bought a cookbook for healthy eating. "This is it!" I told myself. "You're finally going to trim that waist!" Thus, I set myself a goal, that I would prepare EVERY SINGLE RECIPE IN THE BOOK, at least once a week.
Behold my first creation! This is salmon with mustard crust and a side salad of spinach mess (basically spinach, red onion, blueberries, sunflower seeds, orange slices, tomato, and raspberry vinaigrette). It tasted superb.
And I've never prepared any kind of fish before, so this was something of a victory for me. It's a cut of salmon glazed with honey mustard, topped with red onion and a slice of orange, broiled for about 8 minutes. Turned out to taste rather superb, if I do say so myself. Although, I wonder if you can really screw it up?
So I'm already struggling on the daily photo blog thing. Not that I don't have the photos--I just forget I have the blog. I'll endeavor to do better.
I present to you my new favorite toy: Bike. That's what I call it, usually with the first-person singular possessive pronoun preceding it. I remember a time when I used to name my bike; I think I named it after a horse. Majarose, I think it was. Or Tisha. I would pretend I was riding a horse and call "Giddy up!" and slap its rear end. I guess I've grown out of that phase.
That was probably twenty years ago, and I was six. The bike, I remember, was purple with a pink seat and pink handles. I think it had different colored beads on the spokes that tinkled as the wheels turned. I never took it far, just around the neighborhood and maybe a couple of times to Plymouth Elementary. It was the bike I was riding when Kelli suggested I ride with my eyes closed and I crashed and skinned my knees. It was the bike that I used to roll over sluggish potato bugs on the pavement. It was the bike I never thought to lock because in those days you didn't worry about someone stealing it.
Eventually, I graduated to a "big girl" bike, which I now realize was still not exactly full size. This one was white and splotched purple, black, and pink. Kelli's was green and purple, and I envied her that bike. No real reason why, just that it belonged to Kelli, and as every little sister knows, whatever the big sister has is unquestionably superior. This bike took me to school every day, but I don't know whatever happened to it. It probably got lost, or trashed, or sold, in one of the many moves our family passed through over the years. And I never got another bike.
Until now. I am an adult about to embark on a PhD track. And again, I have a bike.
For anyone familiar with ABC's compelling and mysterious series Lost, even if you never made it past season 2, you can still appreciate why an uber-fan might get excited about moving into a new apartment, number 108, not long after the series finale aired. Yes, that's me, uber-fan. Or, if you'd prefer, uber-geek. Basically, I hail the series as my favorite television drama of all time, beating out my 1990's infatuation with The X-Files hand over foot. It will be the first television show of which I own the entire collection on DVD.
I feel like I have a distinct inclination toward "geekhood" (if I may coin a phrase) without actually crossing that line, that point of no return, into full-blown geekiness. When I get into a movie or TV show, I really, really get into it. That's why I have to be so selective. Might I have liked the highly popular Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Probably. Would I have embraced Battlestar Galactica and spent Saturday nights swapping favorite quotes with friends of shared interest? Most likely. Can I tell you the name of every star system and Rebel spacecraft that exist in the Star Wars universe? Well no, actually, though I really enjoyed that first trilogy.
Am I in danger of falling victim to multi-day basement Dungeons and Dragons role playing with the members of a locally organized medieval club? Highly doubtful.
And yet, I don't think I'm far removed from understanding their interest and passion. Every now and then, I get . . . twinges.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
I have recently moved to the small college town of Vermillion, South Dakota. If you had told me a year ago that this is where I'd be spending the next 2 to 4 years (4 being the most likely), a shudder well might have tickled up my spine, ending in a grimace contorting my normally composed expression.
But, I think, this is why our futures are so wisely hidden from us. How many of us would rail against them, not knowing how wonderfully they might turn out? South Dakota? Tucked between the dreaded never-ending Nebraska (containing the longest, dullest stretch of I-80 to cut through the country) and No-Man's Land (read: North Dakota)? Why would anyone in their right temperate-weather-loving mind choose it?
And yet, here I am. Already, I am charmed. To me, there is nothing more beautiful and serene than a river. Not far from my very modest apartment, a slice of the long stretch of Missouri River laps noiselessly its banks, carving out the border between South Dakota and Nebraska.
Last Christmas, my Aunt Linda bought my mother a photo-a-day album project. The name is the description: take at least one photo every day, put it in an album, write a sentence about it.
It's not a new idea. But it's an idea.
So I think I'll undertake it. Starting tomorrow, I'm going to put both my camera and this blog to actual use, in which I shall dally about the dillies of my visual world. Or dilly about the dallies. I'm still not sure what either of those words really means.
About six months ago, my brothers introduced me to Nickelodeon's Avatar: The Last Airbender. With my friend Erin, I blew through the first season and Netflixed the last two seasons as quickly as I could get my greedy little fingers on them. Sometimes, I watched an episode twice.
Yes, I get it. The anime-style cartoon is directed toward 9 to 12-year-old boys, but I, like many people, was hooked. I was hooked into the story, the characters, the excitement, the wondering "What's going to happen next?!?!"
So I do not regret those couple of months in my life at all. In fact, I enjoyed the series so much that I'm re-watching them this summer, and I wish I had the money so that I could buy all the DVDs. Yup. I'm a fan.
Here comes the dilemma: The movie is coming out (tomorrow, in fact), and the reviews so far have been, well, awful. On the rotten tomatoes meter, Shaymalan's The Last Airbender has one of the worst rating I've ever seen on that site: 6% . Even the Twilight movies, which I love to loathe, have significantly higher rating that this apparent disaster.
I am terribly curious, of course, how Shayamalan translated this beloved story to the screen. I think a lot of it would be fun to see in live action. But I don't want it to soil my fondness for the series. Can I separate the two enough in my head? If the movie proves to be as miserable as everyone is making it out to be, can I pretend/convince myself it never happened? Or maybe I should right now pretend that it never happened and simply not go to see it. Disappointment is, likely, inevitable.
Bah. I'll probably end up seeing it. I'll let you know how it goes.
I picked up this book because a) I really liked The Remains of the Day, by the same author, and b) it was recommended to me by Dr. Joe McLaughlin, my professor of 20th Century Brit Lit. While I didn't think it was quite on par with Remains, it was still a very good read.
Ishiguro once again plays with an unreliable narrator, Christopher Banks, who grew up in a British settlement in Shanghai not long after the first world war. His parents' eventual disappearances, along with his childhood playacting of detective work with his Japanese-born friend Akira, serve as catalysts for his eventual and very successful career as a detective. In time, he puts his skills to the test and endeavors to find his parents.
Although Banks is a detective, this does not read like a detective novel. Rather, we read about cases he has solved but are given no details about them, and he makes large strides toward discovering his parents' location without bothering to offer the details. But that's not what the book is about. Rather, it is about Banks' obsession with finding them that drives the novel, and the reality of the world he ignores and the people he sacrifices in order to do it.
What I love about Ishiguro's novels is the smooth and elegant writing, the subtle but sharp humor, and the highly original plots. I know when I'm reading an Ishiguro, and I look forward to the next. Highly recommended.
Why do I do stuff that is bad for me? I stay up late and complain when I can't stay awake at work. Also when I stay up late and try to talk to people when I'm too tired, I invariably end up saying really stupid and embarrassing things that I later regret. I am too eager if I'm really hungry, eat too much, and then feel sick. Yesterday I ate cake and an alfajor for dinner and drank mate--a lot of mate. A lot of mate when one hasn't had any for months does a number on one's stomach. My only justification is that the cakes had fruit on them. Not that it helped me any. All this resulted in me, in bed at a respectable 11:30, wide awake and wired.
For one, I had cake for dinner, so I was starving. I also had had several mates, which never kept me awake before. Guess there really is caffeine in it. Or something. "I can't sleep!" I thought. Then I started thinking of all the things I needed to do today and during the week. I got up. I turned on the light. I made a list of everything that needed to get done. (OK, not everything. Many things. Urgent things.) Still wired. I did 20 push-ups and 50 crunches. I did leg lifts. I did jumping jacks. I went to the kitchen and had a bowl of oatmeal and museli. I read an article in a magazine.
Still wired.
So I went downstairs and filed. Good thing, too--I was a couple of months behind. Then I placed an ad for a rental unit, a task that has been defying me for months. Then I paid bills and filed some more. I wondered at being responsible for these things and laughed. I checked my email. I checked facebook. I considered practicing the violin.
When, 2 hours later, I decided I could probably fall asleep, I noticed a census questionnaire that I had been avoiding filling out and mailing back. Heck, those past two hours had been the most productive of the last 24 hours, so why not keep going? I finished filling that out, sealed the envelope, and put it with the bills to be mailed.
Why did I not cross the things off of my list? It would have been so satisfactory.
But coming back to doing things that are bad for me . . . staying up late is bad for me. It makes me grumpy the next day. Putting off filing things for months is bad for me. It makes my house messy, but it does provide me with something to do when I can't sleep. Eating cake for dinner is bad for me. But it tastes so good. Drinking too much mate (apparently) is bad for me. But it doesn't taste very good. Eating a cookie for breakfast is bad for me, too. (But, seriously, how much better is that than eating Chocolate Marshmallow Mateys?)
I suppose there are worse things I could be doing, with worse consequences. Still, why do we do things like that, that make us so miserable as a result?
I used to have a weakness when it came to reading books. This was years ago, when I was still a kid. You see, the problem was, I'd get so drawn in to a story that I'd get anxious about where things would go, how they would end. Does Character X survive? Do so-and-so and what's-his-face get together? Will I feel happy, or sad? Satisfied or unresolved? The tension was more than I was willing to bear.
So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.
At least I knew that there was an end.
And I was prepared for it.
I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.
Dad laughed when I showed him the right-front tire, and he laughed harder when I said I hadn't gotten new tires since 2004 . . . if I remembered correctly. Might have been earlier. It was bald.
"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.
"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."
And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.
I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.
I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.
"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."
So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.
I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.
The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."
"How far?"
"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."
I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.
In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.
I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.
