Through a Glass, Darkly

This morning, as I was sitting at my desk, drinking my coffee and working on some important library things, I began hearing . . . a noise. A noise coming from the trashcan. I tried to ignore it. I thought, “Surely there is nothing in the trashcan. La la la la la. Nothing in the trashcan.”

And then I looked down at the trashcan and I saw something move. I went out into the library and proceeded to freak out in front of my assistant, a parent, and a student. (I later offered the student a bribe so that he would never tell anyone what he had seen.)

My assistant, who is nicest person at my school and awesome in every way, took charge. She put a board over the top of my trashcan and went to the office to get someone to page the janitor. Then she came back and talked me down. When the janitor came in the library, I went out. Because I DID NOT WANT TO SEE WHAT CAME OUT OF THE TRASHCAN. I went to the front office, where they made fun of me and also commiserated with me about the freakishness of it all. The janitor proceeded to take care of the situation. I saw him in the hall and he said that everything was taken care of. And then he walked away in his cowboy boots. It was like a scene in a movie. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly right there in my school.

So, do you want to know what was in my trashcan? A SPIDER. A GIANT SPIDER GIANT ENOUGH TO MAKE RUSTLING NOISES IN A TRASHCAN. In a lot of ways, that seems worse than a mouse. At least mice are supposed to rustle. SPIDERS SHOULD NOT BE LARGE ENOUGH TO RUSTLE PAPERS. My assistant and the janitor made shapes that indicated that the spider was as large as my hand. And also they told me that other spiders have been sighted in the school. Giant spiders. Taking over my school. You can imagine how happy this makes me. If you don’t hear from me again, it’s because giant spiders ate my face.

Hey, um, if you are kind of terrified of spiders, I would definitely not click on this link. Because it is almost as horrifying as my story. You’re welcome.

This morning, three of my friends and I participated in the Women’s Only 5K Walk and Run. Two of us ran and two of us walked. I ran almost the entire thing. Almost! Except for this one thing that happened at the end. Which I am going to tell you about.

At the very end, we were approaching the finish line, and I was like, “Yay, I made it!” And then I realized it was a fake-out, and we were going to have to climb a hill, turn the corner, and come back around to the other side of the road for the actual finish line. NOT. COOL. I had to walk for about 30 seconds. I was so sad. I was so close to running the whole thing, but I had put my last burst of energy into making it to where I thought the finish line was. It was nice having the finish line be at the bottom of a hill, though. I will say that.

Also, apparently someone passed out or got hurt or something, and when the paramedics on bicycles were trying to get to her, one of them hit me. That was right at the end as well. So let’s just claim that I had to walk because A GUY ON A BICYCLE HIT ME. That is a better story anyway. (He did seem genuinely sorry. I forgive you, paramedic guy, and I hope you made it to the other person in time.)

Our time wasn’t as good as either of our previous two races, but this was a really really crowded race. There were a few bottlenecks, especially at the beginning. And then over this one really narrow bridge. So I am satisfied with my race, even if it wasn’t my best time. At one point, my friend said, “People who are really concerned with times aren’t going to be happy.” I am not really concerned about my time, and I think it would have been at least a little bit better if not for the bridge and the really slow start.

Special thanks to Meredith Brooks for her song “Bitch” that came on just as I was climbing one hill. Yeah! I kicked that hill’s butt, thanks to her! Also, special thanks to Kanye West for his song “Stronger” that come on when I was on that other hill. I don’t think I would have made it without you, Kanye.

The overall feel of the race was very cool. When I went to pick up my packet last night, I stood in a long line with a bunch of other women and I was surprised at how, “WOOO! Girl power!” it made me feel. It was nice to feel like we as women were doing something that could really help other women. I like to do my part to help kick cancer’s butt.

There were lots of supporters along the race. The supporters really do give me a burst of energy, and I appreciate them being willing to stay out there and cheer us on. But my favorite supporter was a guy with a giant bra stapled to a poster. That guy really wanted us to fight breast cancer.

This afternoon, I dropped off my carpool buddy and drove home. And then I saw a thing of beauty and a joy forever, something that made me turn my car around so I could drive by again. It was just that awesome.

In case you can’t read it, it says, “Obama supporters can steal our signs but not our right to free speech.” As you can see, I made Mike go back with me so I could take a picture of it. I asked him if he thought that it was some kind of official sign these people would have gotten from the McCain offices. Maybe something they printed due to rampant stealing. Mike pointed out that an official campaign poster wouldn’t make Palin look like a giant compared to McCain. Which is true. I hadn’t really considered that. It does make her look freakishly tall. And, if this comment is from the same guy, it does appear he had it made himself.

For the record, even though it should go without saying, I don’t support stealing signs. Stealing signs is lame. People should be able to put whatever signs they want in their yards. Also, if the signs get stolen, what will I count? But I have to confess that I kind of want to go steal that sign so I can hang it over my couch. Look at it. It’s awesome. And it’s not the only sign in the yard!

That one reads: “Thank you American Soldiers. 50,000,000 free Iraq/Afghanistan.” When I saw it this afternoon, I thought it said “50,000 free Iraq/Afghanistan” and I couldn’t figure out what the 50,000 free would be. This makes much more sense.

Looking at the signs and the flags and the general splendor, well, I have a theory. The people stealing the signs? Could just be the neighbors.

Official sign count for the day:

McCain: AWESOME.
Obama: Just some regular yard signs, aka WEAKSAUCE.

(I hope you are impressed with the drive-by photography. The flash kind of broke while I was trying to take the picture, so I’m pretty sure we were spotted. Because we were sitting there for much longer than we intended. Probably we should consider careers as private investigators.)

This evening I went for one last run before the race I am running on Saturday.

(Aside: This race raises money for free mammograms for women who can’t afford them. Here is an actual conversation about that I participated in today.

OTHER TEACHER: So, what is this race all about?

KARI: It raises money for free mammograms for women who can’t afford them.

OTHER TEACHER: . . . How did you get involved with that?

KARI: I heard that this race has the best goody bags.

That’s right! I’m classy like that. I want some free stuff!)

As I was running, three teenaged “gentlemen” in a white car with Florida license plates drove by me and yelled, “Sexy!” To those gentlemen, I would just like to say, “The only reason I didn’t flip you the bird is because I was too busy keeping the McCain/Obama sign count on my fingers.” I am deeply dedicated to the sign count.

I have an interesting thing to report to you! Recent polls I have seen have put North Carolina in “too close to call” territory. (Oh, Dan Rather, what will we do on election night without you to talk about states being too close to call? And going on and on about how Florida is a hot tamale? Or was it Texas? No, I think Texas was a big taco. Those were the days.) Today’s run of 3.25 miles yielded the following results:

McCain signs: 5
Obama signs: 5

My neighborhood is also too close to call! Somebody get Dan Rather down here to talk about frogs with handguns.

I ran a route that I’ve never run before, but close to my house I did notice signs in yards that had not previously had signs. Most of the run was free of signs. Lush green yards uninterrupted by political signage. McCain pulled way ahead, and then, at the end, I had three Obama signs that tied things back up.

So that’s the end of the political content of this post. Except that I do want to say that we considered creating a drinking game for the VP debate that we are about to watch. Each of us could have one red cup and one blue cup. Whenever one of them said something stupid, we’d drink from the appropriately colored cup. Let’s face it, with the two of them, chances are high that something crazy will be said. But we are too lazy to actually organize things, so we’ll probably just sit and watch and drink something boring like water. It’s a school night, okay?

I actually think the chances are higher that Biden is going to say something crazy, because I don’t think there are going to be follow-up questions, and where Palin seems to make the statements that seem the craziest to me are when someone tries to pin her down. I’m not sure that’s going to happen, so she should be able to just stick to her talking points. Biden and his diarrhea of the mouth could make this one memorable. I love the debates. You just never know what’s going to happen.

Go ahead and say it: Kari is a NERD. It’s true. I can’t help it.

I babysat our neighbors’ son a couple of weeks ago so that they could go to an open house at their daughter’s school (which is also Mike’s school). He did not so much like being left behind. But he likes me, so I think he was a little bit conflicted. “I like Kari, but I don’t want Mommy and Daddy to leave! What will I do?” Well, what he did was hold on to me. And he got a little bit too heavy for me, to be honest, so I sat down with him in the chair and rubbed his head for a while. And then he fell asleep.

Now, I am the least maternal person I know. I don’t have a particular desire to have kids of my own, though we might, someday. But even my grinchy heart was touched when this sweet little boy fell asleep on me. (I did not tell his parents that he had a power nap on my watch. I am not that stupid. I want them to let me keep hanging out with their kids.) It wasn’t a feeling like, “Oh, I want one of these.” Just, “I can see why people do want these.” That’s as far as I can go, okay?

And then he woke up. Now, I am not a parent. But things like this make me think that there is no way I could ever BE a parent. I watched this little guy for an hour. And we did a new activity approximately every 30 seconds. That is 120 activities! I needed a nap when I got home.

He handled the whole thing really well, though. Whenever he asked where his Mommy and Daddy were, I would say, “They are just across the street! And so is Mike! While they are there, you and I get to hang out!” And then we would high five. And start a new and different activity. We had a good time. We read books and played trucks and he showed me his room and he put on a hat and I taught him some new songs. (He’s only 2, so he doesn’t know how bad my singing is.) But, you know, even after all that, I think that he still likes Mike the best.

(Next time, I’m bringing popsicles.)

Just to prove how productive we have been. Since I didn’t take a lot of pictures before. And I’m waiting on things like rugs and blinds and pictures on the wall to take pictures now. You should go ahead and assume that most of the painting and dewallpapering was with assistance. Because it was.

Our bedroom:
-Painted it a lovely green to cover the icky light blue.
-Had a new fan installed.
-Put up curtain rods and curtains.
-Bought a TV so we can watch movies in our bedroom.

Our bathroom:
-Painted it a lovely green to cover the icky light blue.
-Put in a cabinet over the toilet since there was no actual cabinet space whatsoever.
-Bought a new mat.
-New toilet seat. (The one we had was cushy.)
-Put up new racks for our towels and bathrobes.

Hallway:
-Took down icky striped wallpaper (we had a lot of help).
-Painted a nice neutral beige (also had help here).
-Patched hole where weird humidity controller thing that no longer works was. (Though we haven’t actually painted over it yet. Stop judging us.)
-New light fixture to replace icky previous one.

Foyer:
-Same icky wallpaper removed, same new paint in its place.
-Another new light fixture!

Front room/library:
-Pulled up carpet.
-And staples.
-Painted a darker beige.
-Put up curtains and curtain rod.
-Had a fan installed.

Kitchen:
-Um, yeah.
-Do you want me to list all of those things?
-I mean, I can if you want.
-Okay, then.
-This is the room we had to pay people to help us with.
-We like to say that this room was sponsored by Lowe’s.
-Took down wallpaper.
-Took out cabinets and carpet and linoleum floor.
-New cabinets, new floor, new countertops.
-Painted fireplace.
-Painted laundry doors.
-Painted walls and trim.
-New stove and dishwasher.
-New light fixtures. In new places.
-Patched/painted ceiling.
-Put up shelves.

Sunroom:
-Painted brick wall.
-Painted paneling.
-Painted trim.
-These things took an insanely long amount of time.
-Changed fixture on ceiling fan to bring it into this century.

Miscellaneous:
-Lots of lists.
-Had locks changed.
-General unpacking.
-Smoke detectors.
-Fixed washing machine.
-BLINDS! Yay! Our blinds are in and soon they will be installed and I am so happy!

Things we still need to do:
-Rugs
-Take down wallpaper in one bedroom.
-Paint other bedroom.
-Finish that last bit of unpacking.
-Actually decorate.
-Work on things like window treatments now that we have blinds.
-New water saving toilet in hall bathroom.
-Actually do something to store our DVDs.
-Get the Big Chair back (it is being reupholstered).
-Deal with the brown doors.

Random things I cannot find:
-My brown belt. (I had to buy a new one. But I really want the old one to be found.)
-My vanilla body spray.
-Our heating pad.
-A box of Mike’s school stuff.

As you can see, we have been very busy. This is my “What I Did This Summer” essay. A little bit late. I kept thinking I would compile the list, but I never actually got around to doing it. And I feel like I have probably forgotten a few things. Perhaps Mike can clarify what they were. (I still have the actual master lists that I made right after we moved in. Would you like to see them? I can take a picture if you would like to see how my mind works.)

Dear Doctor,

Were you just pretending you didn’t notice that I started crying when you told me you couldn’t do anything for me? How about a little sympathy? I spent $20 and an hour and a half of my life to hear you say that you couldn’t help me. And also, I felt really crummy. You could have handed me a kleenex, is what I am saying.

For the record, it was not especially helpful to hear you drone on and on about how OTC medications will prolong my suffering but make me feel better, so that choice was up to me. And how vitamin C and echinacea might or might not help. Depending on which studies you believe. Have you been reading Ecclesiastes? Is everything actually meaningless? It’s kind of a downer when I already feel bad and you’ve already told me you can’t really help me. Even if everything is meaningless, could you pretend for five minutes that it’s not? Lie, if necessary, okay?

These are just the ramblings of a curious mind. A mind addled by pain but fairly certain that your bedside manner left a lot to be desired.

All the crying has kind of got me congested again, could you do something about that?
-Kari

Whenever Phil says the following: “The world is waiting for you. Good luck. Travel safe,” I always tear up. Every time. I love the roadblocks and the detours and the fast forwards. And I love the end of the race, when Phil tells them how many miles they’ve gone and how many countries they visited. But more than that, I love when Phil tells them the world is waiting. And he does the eyebrow pop. I look forward to it whenever I hear the show is coming back. And I always have my kleenex handy. (Though I try to wipe my eyes unobtrusively so that Mike won’t laugh too much.)

(In case you don’t know, I’m talking about The Amazing Race. And if you don’t know, why is that? It’s my favorite show! It’s back!)

This morning, despite my sore throat, I went to the Farmer’s Market to get our vegetables. Mike has a workshop, so I was alone. Somebody had to go, so I threw on a sweatshirt and went. And here’s the thing that struck me - our farmer knows who I am. He stopped what he was doing and asked how my week was, why I was alone today. When I told him that I am a librarian, he told me a story about how he used the library to do some history/genealogy research, and what that meant to his family. He told me that he taught middle school for one year. And he threw some extra grapes in my bag.

We switched to buying more things at the Farmer’s Market because we think it’s good for the environment not to have our food travel so far. We switched because we started thinking it was important to consider how the seasons can shape what we eat. I might have paid lip service to the idea that knowing the man who grew our food, of having a relationship with him was important. But the truth is that I have still been seeing it as a strictly business arrangement. I am not the kind of person who opens up very easily, and being recognized as a regular is, you know, good enough for me.

But buying food from the farmer is - or should be - about the relationship, too. About living in community, which is something that is not very easy for me. Mike does that very well, chatting up the neighbors, being open and friendly. I tend to keep myself to myself. If I want to eat locally because I want to be a little bit more connected to the world that is right around me, well, that probably ought to extend to the people as well as the land. It’s just taking me a little bit longer to figure that whole “people” part out. Which, I know, is making some of the right decisions for the wrong reasons. (And before I post this, I want to add - these are the right decisions for us, and I am certainly not trying to say they are the right decisions for everyone.) I don’t think that the way that I usually behave is actually what God wants from us. I don’t have to pour out my life story to people I don’t know, but there’s some middle ground between doing that and hiding behind comfortable walls.

I think that when I look back at how my life (and specifically my faith) have grown over the years, I see myself doing a lot of the right things for the wrong reasons. I do a lot of things because I think I am supposed to do them, not because I actually have a heart for them. But God can use the things we do even if we’re not doing them for the right reasons. I think that’s what Paul is talking about in the first chapter of Philippians. And it’s true in my own life. I can be convinced that we should take care of the world that God created for us and forget completely about the people I also need to care for. And yet there is redemption there, too, if I will allow God the space to move. This morning I was sweating and my brain felt like it was full of cotton and I hadn’t showered and I just wanted to go back home and lie down. But I took the time to listen to one man’s story instead, and I am glad I did.

Last year, I read a book called Easter Everywhere. It wasn’t exactly what I expected or wanted it to be. I wanted it to be about the ways we see God move every day, the ways we see that our lives have meaning and purpose. The glimpses that we get of God’s victory over sin and death. For me, learning how to take time for other people is part of seeing Easter everywhere. Even in an old National Guard Armory building on a rainy September morning.

Last night my book club discussed Sacred Hunger by Barry Unsworth, and it was one of those discussions that transcended the book. We talked about dogmatism and redemption and grace. I will admit, I have not yet finished Sacred Hunger (a book about the middle passage is not exactly light reading that I can pick up at any moment, unfortunately), though I have enjoyed what I have read so far. But now, after the discussion, I can’t wait to finish it.

This is a passage that was quoted last night, one that I haven’t gotten to yet.

Nothing a man suffers will prevent him from inflicting suffering on others. Indeed, it will teach him the way . . . Was it always wrong then to believe that the experience of suffering would soften the heart? Those who were fond of declaring that they understood human nature would no doubt conclude so. But as the light strengthened slowly, enabling him to make out the bare furnishings of his cabin, it came to [Matthew] Paris that he did not want to be numbered among these knowing ones, that such understanding was worse than error, worse than hope endlessly defeated. If that is what it means to be wise, I choose folly, he told himself, and slept again and woke to daylight and a sweat of pain and the sign of Sullivan’s face above him.

My Favorite English Professor declared that this was a book that could change your life, if you would let it. (And with passages like that, it’s easy to see why.) I have been thinking a little bit lately about my favorite books, and about how long it’s been since I read a book that I would add to my favorites list. And then today I ran across an article about that very thing.

Let me put it another way: When was the last time a book changed your life? I don’t mean offered you new insights or ideas or moved you–I mean profoundly changed the way you see the world or shaped the kind of person you are? If you’re like me, it’s been longer than you’d like to admit.

The article goes on to say:

It’s not that children’s books are pure entertainment, innocent of any didactic goal–what grownups enviously call “Reading for Fun.” On the contrary, the reading we do as children may be more serious than any reading we’ll ever do again. Books for children and young people are unashamedly prescriptive: They’re written, at least in part, to teach us what the world is like, how people are, and how we should behave–as my colleague Megan Kelso (The Squirrel Mother) puts it, “How to be a human being.”

There is a level of moral instruction in these books underneath the incidentals of plot, character, and setting that we’re constantly absorbing: How would a decent person act in this situation? What would a bad person do? What’s the right thing to say to a friend when something terrible happens? The Lord of the Rings books are no more concerned with martial virtues such as loyalty and courage than they are with elaborate codes of courtesy and honorable conduct. Bridge to Terebithia makes this function of literature explicit when Leslie gives Jess The Chronicles of Narnia to read so that he can learn how a prince should behave.

A lot of you are probably thinking about Kathleen Kelly: “When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.” The older I get (I am not saying I’m old, but the older I get) the more I agree with that. And it’s part of why I take my job so seriously.

Speaking of which! Next week is Banned Books Week. There are a lot of things that seem oh so very broken in our country right now. Next week, celebrate one of the things that we can be proud of: intellectual freedom. Read a Harry Potter book, some Judy Blume, or some Steinbeck. Heck, you can even read Gossip Girl (though I don’t actually recommend it). Read something that has been considered so offensive that someone asked for it to be taken off bookstore and library shelves. You can even read something that you find offensive! But please celebrate our freedom to read, to let these books change our lives.

Tonight I drove to UNCG for a class. Sign count!

Obama signs: 7
McCain signs: 0
Don Vaughn signs: 3 (he’s running for State Senate) (that link is not an endorsement)

In conclusion: UNCG is voting Obama.

There is one common theme in the classes that I take for licensure: They all make me want to use more profanity than I ever thought possible. Also, they make me want to stab myself in the eye with a pen. As I fiddled with my pen this evening, I seriously contemplated stabbing myself in the eye with it. Because then I would get to leave. Rather than being spoken to like a kindergartner. *stab stab stab*

I will admit that my attitude about these classes is not always the best. I always start with the idea of going with the flow. I don’t want to be the person who can’t learn from other people because she thinks she knows it all. I definitely do not know it all when it comes to teaching. But the classes! They are often busywork or playacting so as to meet some state requirement. And I do not find that helpful. *stab stab stab*

Last semester, I took a class with a professor who was kind of not my favorite. She spent a lot of time talking about how great she was. And grading our assignments in pithy ways. For our last assignment, part of our requirement was a reflective paper. In what was probably not my finest moment, I wrote reflectively about how lame I thought the assignment was, taking potshots at the part of the assignment I was supposed to be reflecting upon and its really specific (pointless) requirements. In my defense, I did not take potshots at her personally. At least I can say that. That, however, is not something that she can say, because in her response to my paper, she did take (completely untrue) potshots at me. I wrote back correcting her misinformation about me, and she told me that she did not like my tone. I then wished her well, because, thankfully, she was planning to retire over the summer. Did I mention that she was kind of not my favorite? *stab stab stab*

Anyway, I don’t know why I just told you that story. It does not exactly cover me in glory. But it does show you how frustratingly asinine I find these classes. They make me do things I would never normally do. Tune in next week to read about my huge crazy freakout in which I take too many behavioral meds at once, rip off my clothes, and jump into the fountain at the mall, yelling, “Blaaaaah! I’m a kraken from the sea!”

(To my mom: Do not be alarmed. That is a reference to Juno. Not something I actually plan on doing.)

I have been noticing a lot of meaningless polls in the news. Oh, McCain has the bump from the convention! Oh, Obama has pulled ahead by two points! Oh, the Palin effect! None of these polls actually mean anything, because no one really knows what is going to happen on November 4th. In that same spirit, I offer you my deeply unscientific poll of the yard signs I counted while on my two mile run today.

McCain yard signs: 4
Obama yard signs: 2

(Those numbers do seem low, I know. I should say that I ran along a lake and also beside a park, so well over half of my path had houses only on one side. Next time I will choose a more interesting path for my polling purposes.)

The results: Two thirds of the people who were in my running path and who also care enough to put up signs are voting McCain. Sorry, Obama. You should just hang it up now. Unless, of course, all those empty yards are undecided voters. In which case: both you guys better step it up!

It was almost enough to make me want to go for a longer run, because I have seen more of both signs on other paths. Almost. But not really. Also, counting signs sure made that run go faster. People of my neighborhood! Declare your political affiliations! Because it gives me something to do besides listen to The Hold Steady and pine for my run to be over!

Some other deeply unscientific observations:

-Most of the McCain voters are also voting Elizabeth Dole.

-The McCain houses were, uh, considerably larger than the Obama houses. hehehe.

-Except for one McCain house, which was in the smaller part of the neighborhood (read: the part of the neighborhood I live in). At that house, there were people in the yard. And both of them had white hair. It made me laugh, because it’s such a stereotype.

I am actually very interested to see if the signage increases in our neighborhood throughout October. My family isn’t much for joining things or believing in political parties, so we’ve never had signs in our own yard for political candidates. What does the sign do besides alienate your neighbors who feel just as strongly about the other guy (or gal)? Do those signs ever change anyone’s mind? (I do think that local signs can cause name recognition when you get to the polls, but . . . I am pretty sure McCain and Obama have enough name recognition. Just a hunch.) I have never believed in a political candidate strongly enough to want to put a sign up. And, frankly, that’s still how I feel. I am my father’s daughter, and therefore required to hold the position that, “They’re all a bunch of crooks.” I am married, however, to an Obama supporter, and he keeps threatening to cover up the dent on my car’s bumper (thank you, Mr. I-drive-a-giant-SUV-and-talk-on-my-phone-rather-than-looking-when-I-back-up) with an Obama magnet. Because we’re just too busy to actually get the car fixed. And, also, we’re just that classy.

Ten years ago today, Mike asked me to marry him. (I didn’t say yes for a few more days, and I debated about whether to wait and post something on the 24th or to go ahead and do it now. Obviously now won out.)

We hadn’t actually been out on an official date at that point. Not because we were courting, but because he was my boss, and we were trying very hard to follow the rules. Because of that, I wasn’t completely sure how he felt about me. And then he asked me to marry him. I was, in a word, surprised. Everyone was surprised. But I knew (in a way that I couldn’t necessarily put into words without sounding cheesy, and I am not so good with the cheesy) that I wanted to be with him, even if I didn’t have a clue what “forever” might actually look like. So, three days later, I said yes. Ten years ago.

When we look back at that time, we laugh and say things like, “We were so young!” and, “What were we thinking?” There’s nothing else to say, really. I was 19, and he had just turned 23. We had no idea what we were doing.

It’s been ten years full of all sorts of things. There’s been family drama and graduate school and career changes and my dad’s death and fantastic vacations and lazy weekends and road trips and concerts and changing churches and moving. We have been through a lot together, and we have staked our claim: This is who I am, this is who we are together. Some of those lessons have been difficult, but we have learned them and changed and grown together. We are not those 19- and 23-year-olds. We both feel so much more confident, so much more grounded in many ways. He makes me brave. He gives me the courage to take risks like changing jobs and dreaming about the future. I hope I do the same for him. I am so thankful that 19-year-old me said yes, even though she had no idea what she was getting into, because I like where we are and who we are. I can see the winding path we took to get here, and I know I could not be me without Mike.

So, baby, here’s to ten more years. (And ten more after that, and ten more after that . . . for as long as we both shall live.)

While stopping at Starbucks today, I saw this poem. I looked at the author’s other poems on Poets.org, and I like her stuff a lot. But this one really resonates with me, the redemption, the common grace, the way that God is moving all around us. If we will only have the eyes to see.

—–

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks by Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner’s plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

I can tell that I am feeling more on top of things, because my binder is totally organized. I even punched holes in the handouts I printed off before I went to class tonight. I turned in my paper that was due today a day early. My papers are graded. My lessons are (relatively) planned. Those first few weeks of school were madness, but (knock wood) things this week have settled down. We had a fantastic meal with my family on Tuesday night (more on that when the pictures make it online), I had a nice weekend in Nashville, and Mike’s birthday is coming up. It seems like things are on the upswing.

Last week I finally put words to the fact that I have been feeling so empty lately. Disconnected from my friends and my family and even kind of from God. Over the weekend, Alisa and Brandi and I talked about how things don’t make sense, how things don’t work in a system. I think God can use the things that don’t make sense to teach us more about him, but that doesn’t mean it’s ever really going to add up in some verifiable way, at least not while we are here. It’s both easier and more difficult for me to believe that than to try to wring meaning from every little thing that happens. In the past week, I have found meaning in late-night conversations (it was very late in my time zone), in long car rides, in moonlit walks in my neighborhood, in excellent meals and time spent with family, in concerned voicemail messages, in music that reminds me to stay positive. I am thankful for the people and things around me that remind me of life’s meaning even when I don’t completely know what that means.

I have been in some discussions lately about censorship and freedom of speech, mostly because of those Time and NYT articles about Sarah Palin and banned books and I am not getting into all of that here because that’s not really what this blog is about. You should just know that I do care passionately about freedom of speech, about keeping books on the shelves. I care because those things enable me to freely say what I believe, and because of that, I defend the rights of others to say things I deeply disagree with.

In one of the classes I am taking, we just read the ALA Freedom to Read Statement. It ends with the following words, words that gave me goosebumps because I found them so inspiring:

We state these propositions neither lightly nor as easy generalizations. We here stake out a lofty claim for the value of the written word. We do so because we believe that it is possessed of enormous variety and usefulness, worthy of cherishing and keeping free. We realize that the application of these propositions may mean the dissemination of ideas and manners of expression that are repugnant to many persons. We do not state these propositions in the comfortable belief that what people read is unimportant. We believe rather that what people read is deeply important; that ideas can be dangerous; but that the suppression of ideas is fatal to a democratic society. Freedom itself is a dangerous way of life, but it is ours.

Somebody get me that on a t-shirt. (Or maybe just that last part if the rest is too long.)

Leslie gave me a blog award last week, and I have been a tiny bit busy and therefore haven’t done anything about it. Thanks, Leslie! I enjoy your blog as well. You are a fun and funny girl.

Have I told you that I am carpooling to work? I am! I am carpooling with a 6th grade Language Arts teacher. It’s so delightfully nerdy. We drink our coffee together. Sometimes we talk and sometimes we sit in silence. I brought vitamins and made her take them when she was sick. I enjoy the processing time with someone who knows the ins and outs of my school, and I feel like it means that I get some of those things out of my system instead of dumping them on Mike. Also, we are saving gas, money, and the environment. (The environment part was the most important thing to me until this weekend, when I saw gas for $4.99/gallon. Holy crap!) And don’t forget the part where we can use each other as an excuse to get out of things we don’t want to do. “Oh, I’m sorry. I carpool.”

I did not realize this, but carpooling is something that people value very highly, even if they don’t actually want to do it themselves. So many people have made positive and encouraging comments when they see us getting out of the car, or when it comes up in conversation. It’s a nice way to start the day. That’s right, we carpool. Aren’t you impressed with our planning and cooperation, as well as our gas savings? I hope that it is able to last, because I want to actually follow through on the things I say are important to me. If Mike is walking to school, well, at least I can carpool. Otherwise he’ll be completely insufferable.

Last week I got fantastic news. Mike was telling me something while I was checking my email, and I missed everything he said because I was standing there with my mouth wide open. I might possibly have squealed, and I am not really a squealer. What was this fantastic news in my inbox? My high school librarian, the one who coached my Quiz Bowl team and who made me want to be a librarian myself, is going to be on Jeopardy! JEOPARDY! There go the capital letters again! Her show(s . . . let’s be optimistic!) will be filmed at the end of this month. Do you know how much we used to talk about Jeopardy! at Quiz Bowl practice? I will tell you! A lot! Clever teenagers that we were, we always threatened to answer Quiz Bowl questions in the form of a question. (Apparently, before my time, one guy actually did phrase his answer in the form of a question. In an actual match. But he didn’t do it on purpose. It just came out that way. Jeopardy! geeks unite!) In the email that she sent to a bunch of us old Quiz Bowl members, she thanked us for helping her learn stuff. I don’t know what I could possibly have taught her, but I know that she taught me a lot, from how to identify an Emily Dickinson poem and how to remember that W.B. Yeats was Irish to how to handle the perils of the high school social scene and what it looks like to authentically live out your faith by caring for people.

So, let’s review. I just told you that I got all excited and squealy about my former librarian being on Jeopardy! Could I BE any more of a nerd?

Two years ago today, my dad died. We were very much alike, and we were known to butt heads every now and then. He was not a perfect man, but he loved us and he was proud of us. He was a good dad, and I miss him. This has been a sad, overwhelming week. Two years sounds like both a long time and an inconceivably short time. I have sort of gotten used to our family as it is now, but sometimes it hits me hard, the things that he has already missed.

This is my favorite picture of the two of us. He had never worn a tuxedo before, and he was so happy for me. He was very sick at the end, but this is how I like to remember him.

This recipe is taken from How to Grill by Steven Raichlen.

For the dough:
1 envelope active dry yeast (2 1/2 teaspoons)
1 teaspoon sugar
1 1/4 cups warm water
3 1/2 cups unbleached white flour, or more if necessary (or, you know, WHATEVER YOU HAVE IF YOU FORGOT TO CHECK HOW MUCH FLOUR YOU HAD)
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
About 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Whatever you want for your toppings.

I made the dough in the mixer. You can do it in the food processor, but my food processor is not big enough.

1. Place the yeast, sugar, and water in the mixer bowl (fitted with a dough hook). When foamy, add 2 tablespoons oil, and the salt and flour. Mix at low speed to form a smooth, soft dough.

2. Turn the dough out onto a work surface and knead it by hand for a few minutes. Lightly coat a large bowl with the remaining oil. Place the dough in the bowl, turning it to coat with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the dough rise in a warm spot until doubled in bulk, 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

3. Punch down the dough and let rise until doubled in bulk again, 1 hour. This second rising isn’t imperative, but your crust will be lighter if you have time to do it.

4. Prepare your toppings.

5. Set up the grill for three-zone direct grilling. (I have no idea what this means. Mike says: “High. Medium. Low. Three different zones. Three different temperatures. Three different flame sizes.” Got it? He adds, “My three zones were high, low, off.”) Preheat the hot zone to high. When ready to cook, brush and oil grill gate.

6. Generously oil two rimmed baking sheets. Place half the dough on one of the baking sheets and stretch it out to form a 9×13 inch rectangle that is 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick. Repeat with the remaining dough and cover it with plastic wrap. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO GET THE DOUGH THIN. This is where we have made mistakes in the past. Otherwise it is not very good pizza crust.

7. Starting from the far narrow side and using both hands, gently lift the first dough rectangle and drape it onto the grate over the hottest part of the fire. Within a minute or so, the underside of the dough will crisp and darken and the top will puff slightly. Using tongs and a spatula, slide the dough to a cooler part of the grill and cook until the bottom of the dough is browned and firm, 3 to 5 minutes. Brush the uncooked top with oil.

8. Using tongs and a spatula, invert the crust over a hotter part of the fire. Grill until this side, too, starts to crisp and darken, about 1 minute. Move the crust back to a cooler part of the grill and brush the top with oil. Arrange the toppings and move the crust to the low (or “off”) part of the grill, letting the indirect heat warm the toppings and melt the cheese. This way the flame does not burn the bottom.

This recipe makes 2 pizzas, 9×13 each. Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer.

We had some friends over Saturday night and grilled pizza. I meant to take pictures, but it all happened kind of fast there at the end, so there are no pictures of Mike grilling the pizza. I will say that this was definitely the best grilled pizza we have ever done. After some trial and error, Mike has figured out the best way to shape the dough and get it on the grill. I was inside getting the toppings and the salad ready, but I wish I could have seen how he did it this time. He really outdid himself.

We had our friends over to thank them for helping us move. Like most everything else having to do with this house, we could not have gotten moved in without their help, because none of the move-in went as planned. Of course. To thank them, really, all we did was feed them pizza, but grilling it makes it sound more glamorous, don’t you think? We had a cheese pizza (that one I baked in the oven); a pesto pizza with mushrooms, red onion, chicken, and tomatoes; and a sundried tomato pesto pizza with squash, zucchini, mushrooms, and onions. Mike made the various pestos. Pestoes? And we bought a lot of the veggies on Saturday morning at the Farmer’s Market because these friends really dig that sort of thing.

The dough itself was kind of a comedy of errors. We made a grocery list and Mike went to get everything. Unfortunately, we managed to miscalculate how much yeast we actually had. We also managed not to check to see if we had any flour. Because of course we have flour! How could we be out of flour? We had one cup of flour. Because of that, our dough ended up being whole wheat, because that was what we had. Also, when I was measuring out the flour, I lost track of how many cups I had counted. ALSO, after stressing about our lack of yeast and the whole flour situation, we realized that the original recipe was meant to make two pizzas. Since we were making three, we had plenty of dough (and yeast) after all. Despite all of our best efforts to ruin everything by not having the proper ingredients and not reading the recipe thoroughly, the dough ended up being great. No thanks to either of us.

It was a really nice evening - the food turned out great, and we ended up talking and watching The Office and playing with Big Bunny until after 11. (For two schoolteachers, that is kind of late.) It was our first time actually having people over to the new place for a meal, and we did lots of straightening and hanging pictures to make it work. We also took the big chair to be reupholstered Saturday, so it will be all spiffed up and back to us in a few weeks. It was good to have a reason to keep on unpacking and organizing. Otherwise, we might never get the pictures on the walls. And the things we did Saturday already make it feel more homey. (But we do miss the big chair already. Come home soon, big chair!)

One of the things that teachers have to do is go to these fundraising nights that the school has at various restaurants. My school has them at Moe’s and Poblano’s (a local Mexican restaurant), but Mike’s school has them on the first Thursday of every month at McDonald’s. I hope you can all agree with me that Moe’s and Poblano’s are far superior to McDonald’s. I agreed to go with him to McDonald’s, but not to eat dinner there. I insisted on eating at home. Because we bought vegetables at the Farmer’s Market, and they kind of have to be eaten.

Speaking of the Farmer’s Market, we are probably going to go ahead and join the CSA that we were thinking about joining. We spoke to Mr. Dodge Lodge Farm about it this morning, and we are going to get a half share starting next week. It seems like it might be more vegetables than we need, but we’ll try it and see how it goes. One thing I like is that we get to go and pick out what we want, rather than just being assigned a bag. It’s very flexible.

Anyway, McDonald’s was packed out and also the sun was beating down in the front windows making the room approximately 150 degrees. And I didn’t know anyone but our neighbors and one of the 4th grade teachers, and I am so awkward in those situations. So while Mike was chatting, I got in the huge long line so that I could buy our sundaes with extra fudge. (Dessert first, then dinner.) And that ended up being a mistake, too, because all the people were there for his school and they all knew each other and I just stood there like a lump. I am so awkward in situations like that. I am sure that in the future, more people will know who I am, but Mike is new, so they don’t even know who he is yet. And then I spilled my water on the floor, and seriously, you just can’t take me anywhere.

Here is a list of interesting/amusing things that happened at McDonald’s Night:

1. I got to talk to our neighbors in a different environment. Their son had never been to McDonald’s before. He was all about the french fries. And when I came back with our sundaes, he was enraptured.

2. Our neighbors were taking their daughter out of school on Friday in order to take a trip away for the weekend. The mom was not completely happy about this, as she was apparently someone who had really good attendance. She didn’t know if it was setting a bad precedent or sending a bad message to the people at the school. I said, “I never had perfect attendance, and I was the valedictorian of my high school. Not that that has ever gotten me anything, but at least I get to say it.” hehehe. (She said, “Well, that’s a good point. What have my good grades gotten me? I spend my days doing laundry and picking up the house.”)

3. We got away from the windows and hung out with a family from our church for a while. The daughter (who is in Mike’s class) wanted some food, and her dad gave her the credit card and sent her up to get some. She looked unsure about it, so I said I would show her how to swipe the credit card. After I taught her how to use it, I asked her to take me shoe shopping. Later, when I saw her mom, I told her that I taught her daughter how easy it is to use a credit card. She was really happy about that, as you can imagine.

4. One of the other teachers said that Mike and I look like brother and sister. Is this cute, creepy, or a legitimate example of couples starting to look like each other over time?

Mike promised that this was the last one of these I had to go to. For which I am grateful. I feel like I cramp his style because I don’t know anyone. It was probably good that I had the neighbors to talk to while he was making the rounds. But I do like watching him with the students and the parents. He is so good with them, so sure of himself and his own abilities. I like seeing that side of him as it has grown over the past few years. I will probably pass on future McDonald’s nights, but it was good to see him in his element, to see that all his hard work is really paying off.

When I was in grad school the first time around, I had my binders and they were organized and I was on top of things. Now, I have never been the kind of person who is great at keeping paper organized (my desk, for example, is piles of papers, but I do know where everything is), but I had my binders and my color-coded tabs and I was decently organized.

This time, though? FAIL. I haven’t even bought a binder yet. I keep carrying around these huge piles of the articles I have printed off. The papers for my two classes are mixed together. It is an abomination. And I can’t seem to find the desire to do something about it. (I imagine I will find that desire right about the time I realize something is due and I had no idea about it. It would probably be good to find it before then if I can manage it.)

I am feeling better about my classes this week. Last week, what with the tornadoes and the rain and the being late, I left class and cried and cried. I told Mike I couldn’t do it. I really meant it, too. I don’t really say things like that, especially when it comes to school. But I did not believe I could do it. I considered dropping one of my classes. But I didn’t. I think I made the right decision. Last night as I was walking back to my car, I was relieved to feel much more like myself, the person who is not afraid to look these sorts of challenges in the face. Creating videos? I scoff at creating videos. Papers on asinine topics? Bring them on! I can do those with my eyes closed. Wasting my time? Well, I don’t love that so much. But I can deal with it.

As I was walking on the sidewalk on UNCG’s campus, a car going in the same direction stopped at a stoplight and began blasting the song “Bye Bye Bye.” On both sides of the street, spontaneous dancing broke out. People were reenacting the video and singing along. An ‘N Sync party! Right there on the street! (If we guess that these were 18-20 year olds, well, they were 10-12 when the song came out. I imagine many of them practiced those dance steps in their living rooms. Not that I have any experience in that sort of thing.) I may or may not have learned anything in my class, but I learned something there on the sidewalk: I need more spontaneous dancing in my life.

When we were trying to find a house, we ended up making a choice between a smaller house that needed some loving in a good location with nice-seeming neighbors and a slightly larger house where the work had already been done in a slightly more upscale neighborhood where it did not appear we were going to have a lot in common with the neighbors. Obviously (you’ve seen those before pictures of the kitchen, right?) we went with the smaller house with the nicer neighbors and where Mike can walk to work and where we got to choose all the kitchen colors ourselves.

We second-guessed that decision once, about two weeks into this whole process when our house was a disaster and we had spent about 300 hours painting the sunroom. Mike said, “If we’d picked the other house, we would be completely unpacked by now.” But since that moment of weakness, we haven’t looked back. (We definitely wouldn’t have finished the kitchen without help, but that is beside the point. We were both on antibiotics, for one.)

Remember our neighbors who brought us cookies? We’ve been getting to know them. We went and wished their daughter luck before her first day of kindergarten (at Mike’s school), we chat with them in the yard all the time, and we let their kids play with Big Bunny. (Big Bunny is less impressed by this gesture.) This morning, their son was at Mike’s school (he’s still in preschool, so he was there with his mom) and he saw Mike and went over and pulled on Mike’s pants leg to say hi. Stuff like that? Makes us pretty sure we made the right decision.

May I just ask the blogosphere/universe why it is, exactly, that the children of the world love Mike? At church, at school, at random family gatherings, children love him. So much. Me, not as much. Mike says I try too hard. Apparently I am Pam and he is Jim. Help me not try so hard, internet. I just want to be loved by children like Mike is. What am I doing wrong? I play and talk! Should I weave flowers in my hair? Refuse to leave the house without a cloud of beautiful butterflies surrounding me? (Those things are totally normal and not trying too hard at all. Don’t you wear flowers in your hair all the time? Or just when you are surrounded by clouds of butterflies?)

I am watching the 2-hour season premiere of 90210. Stop judging me. Actually, keep on judging me. I am judging myself. But not very harshly, because I can’t stop thinking about the glory days of 90210. Which I wasn’t really allowed to watch when it was on, but which I definitely watched in syndication. And, oh, the drama. The clothes. The hair. I love it all. Can this new incarnation possibly be as good? I doubt it. And Gossip Girl is already my secret trashy show, so there’s not really room for 90210 in my life. I just couldn’t resist seeing what it would be like. (And, um, so far, it’s really really trashy.)

(Mike is refusing to watch it with me. I think this is because he has slowly been sucked in to Gossip Girl and the greatness of Chuck Bass and he knows he must stand firm on the 90210 issue or it will suck him in as well. However, that did not keep him from being excited for me when Kelly and Brenda were on the cover of this week’s Entertainment Weekly.)

(And I am not even going to tell you about how Alisa let us borrow season 1 of Dawson’s Creek, which has been taking me back to my freshman year of college. Emily and I were in a Bible study then, and I remember that my hall mates and I were always trying to get Bible study to wrap up so that we could go watch the saga of Dawson and Joey. And, of course, Pacey. Am I digging myself into a hole here or what?)

Yesterday Mike and I were looking for olive oil from Greece. My mom brought Mike some olive oil from Greece when she went back in the spring. We thought the fancy Harris Teeter might have some, so we went by there. They have a big section of olive oil, and we spent a while looking at it. Until I said, “You realize that we just spent like five minutes examining the olive oil, right? I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of yuppie.” (Then we left and went to The Fresh Market, where they had the same olive oil from Greece for four dollars less. Four dollars! How can it be cheaper at The Fresh Market!?)

Kelly “I choose me!” Taylor is on the screen!

This is the part of the blog entry where I should defend myself by pointing out that I listen to NPR and watch intelligent shows like 30 Rock and The Office and that I carried my apple core home today so that I could compost it instead of throwing it out at school. But I already told you the olive oil thing, so, between that and 90210, I am pretty sure that you have lost all respect for me at this point. Unless, of course, you are watching, too. Anyone?

Remember the kingly mattress pad of insomnia? It has been sitting in a giant pile of . . . stuff on the bed in our second bedroom. (Don’t I sound like a wonderful housekeeper?) But since we have finally been unpacking our pictures, I was able to get to one of the blankets we’d used to pack pictures. That meant that we finally had a lightweight blanket for our bed. And THAT meant that I could take the mattress pad, cut off the stretchy parts on the side, and stuff it into our duvet cover. This is about as crafty as I ever get. But it was pretty awesome, I thought! Our bed once again looks kingly. We get kingliness without the insomnia. Not as awesome: Kari wrestling the giant mattress pad of doom into the duvet cover. I won in the end. That’s all you need to know.

On Saturday morning, we went to the Farmer’s Market. As we do from time to time. Maybe I have mentioned it once or twice. When I went last week, I saw Mr. Dodge Lodge Farm and told him that the tomatoes came out great. He said I should bring him some. So this week, I did! Also, he waved at me before I pulled them out, proving once and for all that he does actually know who I am. Except he doesn’t know my name, because I’ve never told him. But that doesn’t matter, because he said that from now on he is going to call me Good Cook. Or something like that. It gets kind of loud at the Farmer’s Market. Maybe he said something more eloquent than Good Cook. The point is, he liked the tomatoes. He hid them under the table so that no one would ask to buy them. I have no idea whether anyone would actually try to buy them, but it was nice of him to go on and on about them. (It worked - we bought our vegetables from him.) (But not any tomatoes. Though he did ask.) They have a CSA program that we are probably going to look into. He might possibly know my name after that.

We also bought something we hadn’t bought before - milk. We switched to organic milk a while back, and a this summer we talked about switching to local milk with no added hormones. But then we never could time it so that we were running out of milk at the right time, so we kept having to get grocery store milk as a stopgap measure. But it finally worked out this weekend that we could buy milk from Homeland Creamery. (Melissa went a couple of weeks ago with her kids, and you can see the pictures here!) You can also get it at some local stores, but not the ones where we usually shop. And, anyway, it’s a tiny bit cheaper to get it at the Farmer’s Market. May I just say, looking at their website really made me want to go and visit the cows.

Mike and I did a lot of unpacking this weekend. We unpacked the teapots, which I cleaned and put on top of the cabinets. He got a lot of pictures out and hung one or two. Some of our rooms are starting to look more homey. But now I need to go and finish putting away the laundry and sweeping the floor so I can cross those things off my list. The only thing I didn’t get to on my list was finishing The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Which I am not so much enjoying. Anybody read it? Am I going to change my mind about it?

My oldest friend got married on Saturday, and she asked me to read some scripture in her wedding. It was an honor to participate in the service, because she is such a lovely person, she and her new husband seem so wonderful together, and it was a beautiful ceremony that managed to be both traditional and personal. I did the Old Testament reading, from Genesis.

The Lord God said: “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a suitable partner for him.” So the Lord God formed out of the ground various wild animals and various birds of the air, and he brought them to the man to see what he would call them; whatever the man called each of them would be its name. The man gave names to all the cattle, all the birds of the air, and all the wild animals; but none proved to be the suitable partner for the man. So the Lord God cast a deep sleep on the man, and while he was asleep, he took out one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. The Lord God then built up into a woman the rib that he had taken from the man. When he brought her to the man, the man said: “This one, at last, is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; This one shall be called ‘woman,’ for out of ‘her man’ this one has been taken.” That is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.

I know that these are not the most romantic verses of all time, but they are pretty meaningful to me, because Mike really did have to leave his father and mother when he chose me, and clinging to each other is how we survived that and all the other challenges we have faced. So I was happy to read those verses for my friend.

The second reading was from 1 Corinthians 13, which is arguably some of the most beautiful language in the Bible. It’s certainly some of the most well-known. We had it in our wedding, in fact. When the second reader began, I wanted to hide under the pew. Because she? Had a gorgeous voice, complete with an Irish accent. I can’t compete with an Irish accent! I was totally upstaged! Even my own family agreed. Mike said I should have read my scripture in a fake British accent. My brother said, you know, sorry, but that other girl totally upstaged you. My brother’s friend said that after I finished she was like, “Wow, that was nice, great job,” but when the second reader started she was like, “Ohhhhhhh.” So sad. Also, she had on a fancy hat, like she was going to see the Queen. I don’t even own any hats like that. Sigh.

My only comfort is that most of the congregation was from New York and Minnesota. Perhaps my accent sounded adorable to them. Perhaps they were thinking, “Isn’t she just the sweetest little Southern Belle?” Yes, thank you for asking. I totally am.

Here is a picture of me and my friend. I couldn’t be happier for her. She has been a constant friend in my life since I was six years old.

(I had on kitten heels. And she had on real heels, maybe 3 inches? And I still tower over her.)

When I was getting ready for the wedding, I got a little bit sad, because my dad really loved my friend a lot. He did not often go to weddings, but he would have wanted to be at hers. He called her his “other daughter,” and he was always threatening to interrogate the people she was dating. I don’t have any pictures of my friend and her husband, but I feel pretty confident in saying that my dad would have approved of the man she chose, because he is nice and sweet and funny and cares about her a whole lot. So when Mike asked me which tie he should wear, I picked the one that was my dad’s so that he could be there, too.

I saw this letter from Digital History on another blog. Jourdon Anderson, an ex- Tennessee slave, declines his former master’s invitation to return as a laborer on his plantation, 1865. I am posting it because Jourdon Anderson was the epitome of a Southern gentleman, and in being so, showed Colonel Anderson for exactly what he was.

Dayton, Ohio, August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter and was glad to find you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Col. Martin’s to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again and see Miss mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville hospital, but one of the neighbors told me Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here; I get $25 a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy (the folks here call her Mrs. Anderson), and the children, Milly, Jane and Grundy, go to school and are learning well; the teacher says grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday- School, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated; sometimes we overhear others saying, “The colored people were slaves” down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks, but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Col. Anderson. Many darkies would have been proud, as I used to was, to call you master. Now, if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free- papers in 1864 from the Provost- Marshal- General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you are sincerely disposed to treat us justly and kindly- - and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty- two years and Mandy twenty years. At $25 a month for me, and $2 a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to $11,680. Add to this the interest for the time our wages has been kept back and deduct what you paid for our clothing and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams Express, in care of V. Winters, esq, Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night, but in Tennessee there was never any pay day for the Negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up and both good- looking girls. You know how it was with Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve and die if it comes to that than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood, the great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits. <>P.S. — Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson

Source: Cincinnati Commercial, reprinted in New York Tribune, August 22, 1865.

(That might be the greatest P.S. of all time.)

It took me for-ev-er to read this book. I kept putting it down, and also there were things like the Olympics and the DNC and being sick and being tired from going back to work that kept me from reading as much as I normally do. I am glad I stuck with it, though.

After moving from California to Hampden College in Vermont, Richard finds himself taken in by small, wealthy group of students who study Greek together. As Richard gets to know them better, he discovers that they have a secret. As he falls deeper and deeper into their confidence, their fear of discovery leads them to kill one of their own.

The first part of the book is setting up the things I just told you - Richard’s relationships with the five of them and how their friendship leads to murder. (This is all told on the inside jacket and in the first chapter, so I am not spoiling anything by telling you that.) The second half, which I liked better, was the fear of discovery. I liked how the walls were closing in around them, the sense of dread that permeated the pages. The question is, will they be discovered? And even if they aren’t discovered, will it have been worth it in the end?

The last hundred pages had twists and turns that had me actually gasping out loud, and because of that, I would say that this one is worth a shot. I think it would be a decent choice for a book club discussion because of the characters and their relationships alone. The first part is slow, but the payoff, for me at least, was worth it.

We have fire drills and tornado drills, but what do you call it when there’s an actual fire or an actual tornado? When I was in high school, someone set some kind of fire in a bathroom (the details have become somewhat fuzzy), and what we called it was, “Everyone get out of the building and then stand in the rain for hours and then come back into the building and shiver for the rest of the day because the radiators can’t be turned on.” (Huh, seems like some of THOSE details aren’t exactly fuzzy.)

Today, a tornado touched down near my school, and as we emphasized that, no, it was not a drill, I learned that what we actually call it is “tornado lockdown.” I was actually kind of impressed with this phrase. It sounds so official and makes the idea of everyone crouching by the wall in the tornado position seem so much less silly.

Of course, it didn’t seem silly at all when the tornado siren started going off. I don’t have a lot of tornado experience - we get tornadoes here, but certainly not like other parts of the country. I remember there being a pretty serious tornado warning when I was in elementary school and that we spent a couple of hours crouching by the wall, but I don’t remember hearing the tornado siren. In fact