When you live in an ancient lake basin...

My mother likes to talk about Lake Agassiz. Maybe it's because she's a former elementary school teacher, but it's a little embarrassing, actually, to bring friends home from college and have them get Myra's lecture on The Big Lake. But she's right. I know she's right everytime we leave this valley, and my ears pop like I'm on an airplane because I'm not used to the elevation.

So it surprises no one that our basement (hell, everyone's basement in the eleven county area) takes on water this time of year. I honestly don't know why so many of us have basements, even. And every year I swear I'm going to be ready for it, and every year I get pissed off when it shows up. Really, really pissed off.

Today, I cursed the rain, my basement, the people who built this house, the people who sold us this house, my realtor, the guy at Menard's who sold me a lousy 8 gallon wetvac, my grandparents for settling in this area, the length of my own pants, my dad for having a stroke instead of staying well and living long enough to help me with this crap, gravity, those disgusting little centipedes that curl up and die all over my basement, linoleum, the nasty consistency of wet cardboard, and Lake Agassiz.

(I emptied the wetvac 5.5  times in 20 minutes. That's right. 44 gallons of water. The first photo is of my basement, just an hour after I got rid of 44 gallons of water. The second photo is my damn stupid long pants.)

I know, geologically, that this is what we deserve. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Busy and Angry and Tired, oh my!

Busy: It's the last four weeks of the semester, ladies and gentlemen. Yes, that's right. It means I'm up to my neck in grading, the laundry's piling up, and the car needs washed. And yet....I want to blog. I want to frolic and share and love all of you, and piss on this giant stack of student papers. (Well, not literally. Once, when we had a black miniature poodle named Zuul with some anger issues, he peed on some student papers. Those were fun to hand back). It's funny how that works, isn't it? How just when we feel totally tapped out we seee something shiny and suddenly have all the energy we could want.

Angry:  Oh, lord, I'm angry at snow. I've never been mad at snow before, that I can recall, though probably I have. But it just.will.not.leave. It's filthy and grey and going to flood our river all to hell but it's taking its own sweet time.We still have 6' high piles all around. And just when the driveway is almost clear, we get another 7 inches. Even Shaun's getting in on this anger party: a couple of weeks ago he came home just furious at the weather. So we talk about moving, and watch a movie or two, and then spring finally shows up and we forget about moving until next winter. Gak. Stupid sneaky snow.

Tired: I'm tired of being busy and angry, I guess. I'm looking forward to my sabbatical but it still seems entirely abstract and far away. I want to set out a bird feeder, and cook something new, but mostly I just want to take a nap. And blog.

Anyway, what a depressing, whiny post! Here, I will offer you something to cheer you up. V had two birthday parties to attend on Saturday, and we made the gifts for both. Here's the second party, at our local bowling alley (bowling parties are fun! I'd never been to one before!). We made our friend Oscar Costumes on a Stick, and he let his guests show them off with him.

I think they were a success! And isn't this a much happier ending? I thought so.

Sorry I blew up.

Shaun is making fantastic progress at Crazy Work, as he calls it. In his off time, he's watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Girl Interrupted, and I'm thinking What About Bob is next in our queue. The outpatient psych program is just exactly what he needed, and we are all so thankful and relieved. It's so good to have him back.

And then, on Sunday night, he got a terrible headache. Sudden and fierce and throbbing, it was an 8 on a scale of 10, he said. And with it came a strange shoulder pain. But because we're not smart people, he didn't go in until this morning, before the start of Crazy Work. At 8 am, he had bloodwork and an EKG. (This is our life now, apparently). Everything's fine, according to those two tests, and the walk-in doctor gave him some Tylenol with a barbituate of some sort, to help with his headaches. (Cardiomyopathy patients can't take ibuprofen or aspirin, and should avoid caffeine. It's Tylenol or nothing, but I guess adding barbituates is okay).

But between the EKG and the results, a telemarketer called me. Oh, mercy, that poor man.
"Hello?" I answered, hoping it was good news from Shaun.
"Yes, hello. My name is Dave. How are you today?"
"I'm fine..." The tension in my voice was not being hidden from Dave, I'm afraid.
"I am calling to congratulate you! You have been selected to win a $50 gift card from Wal-Mart."
"Thanks, Dave, but I'm not interested. I'm sorry. Have a good day." I hate telemarketrs, but I see no use in being rude to someone who's doing their job.
"No no no," Dave interupts me. "Just wait..." Oh, Dave. You should've given up easier.
"No, YOU wait, Dave," I snapped. I never snap. I'm nice to assholes, as a rule. My voice turned to a crescendo: "My husband is in the hospital and I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU ON THE PHONE RIGHT NOW. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

Dave quickly hung up, without apologizing. And V burst into tears because Mommy was yelling at a strange man.

I only feel a little bad, and that's only because it upset V. It had to be done. Besides, Dave, I hate Wal-Mart.

Sorry I blew up

I didn't mean to leave such a mysterious post up all weekend. I wanted to share some pretty photos, or thoughtful reflections, but the weekend got busy and because I can't legally share all the craziness that was Thursday, I didn't say anything.

But now it's Monday, a new week, and I can tell you part of what happened. On Thursday I caught a cheater. Sadly, this isn't a surprising thing in the life of an English teacher, and since I've been doing this for twelve years, I've caught more than I care to count. But on Thursday, this student cheated in a way that I had never seen before, in a way that I never would have thought of, and I'm so deeply disappointed in him, and in the twenty students who witnessed him cheat and didn't tell me, and in humanity in general. I feel disillusioned about my work and about the world.

Okay, I know I'm over-reacting. He's just another punk kid who thinks I'm stupid, and I'll flunk him like I've flunked all the others. Shaun laughs at me because every time I catch a plagiarist or a cheater, I'm shocked and upset by it, even though I've caught at least one every semester since 1998. Yet every single time it feels like I'm being slapped in the face, or kicked in the belly, or spat upon. Or all three. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

But I'm not. I go into every semester believing in every single one of my students: I believe they want to learn, and that they are good at heart, and that I can help them see why writing, reading, and learning in general will enrich their lives. If I didn't, I don't know how I'd stand in front of them every day and try to teach them things they think don't matter.

I love my students. Each of them comes to me with an amazing life story, each so different from my own. I love watching their faces light up when they finally understand something they'd never thought of before. I love seeing their writing grow and flourish each week of each semester, and I love how many of my students learn to love to read again through my class. It's very rewarding work, sharing the power of language with people, particularly people who never noticed it before, as so many of my students haven't.

But then this fool comes in on Thursday and disappoints me, and I just want to yell at all of them. I want to stomp my feet and gnash my teeth and say "Do you know ANYTHING about integrity? Do you know what college IS?" I want to call his parents and ask why they unleashed such a moronic child into my classroom. I want to call his future employers and tell them to think carefully before hiring a cheater.

But I won't. I'll treat him like I've treated the others: I'll speak to him alone, in my quiet, angry, teacher voice. I'll look into his eyes, and show him the syllabus, where my policy on academic integrity is clearly printed. I'll remind him I read him this syllabus just three weeks ago. I'll ask him what he thinks I should do, and point out that I could have him expelled for what he's done.

I'll flunk him. And I'll feel awful about it, and I might even cry when he leaves the room. Because catching cheaters is not why I choose to teach. It is the antithesis of it, really. Hopefully I can still have an open heart each day of class, believing that my remaining students will never slap me in the face. Because if I lose that, if I begin to expect this behavior, then I'll need to find some other kind of work.

Freedom of speech

I've been fighting the misanthropy lately. Honest. In Vegas, I was sitting next to an older Japanese man at a slot machine, and I don't like to be talked to when I'm gambling. I don't gamble to socialize. But he commented on a bonus I was in, and he was funny, and for the next half an hour we had a lovely conversation about Vegas and money and 108 degree weather. So I decided I would try to be more open in my heart, and not assume all people were morons. It's been a nice month, really.

But then I go online. In our local paper, my neighbors write comments of such nastiness, hiding behind usernames and bravely, aggressively yelling at one another, that I can barely stand it. Now, I live with a contrary man, so opposing opinions do not really phase me. But these people write things so full of vitriol and hatred and racism that it makes me want to cry. And I remember again why I shut everyone I didn't know already out in the first place.

So I have to stop reading the comments. And I wish the Forum would not allow comments on some stories. But I do know people have a right to free speech, and I'm a proponent of it. I just don't want to read that kind of awfulness. It makes my heart sad to see that much ignorance, that much willingness to be cruel, in words anyway.

I gotta go find me a slot machine.

Why more people should take Intro to Women's Studies

Two students standing in the hallway at the college where I work. I overheard them talking.


Boy: I dunno, I think she's a feminist or something.
Girl: Oh? Why?
Boy: Because everytime I ask her for help in lab or whatever, she's all snotty and stuff.


I call them "boy" and "girl" even though they are over 18, because they annoyed me.

Bright lights, big city (a marathon of a post)

Myra and I and V went to Minneapolis this past weekend. Now, all of you whom I was supposed to see but didn't should take a deep breath, stop hating me, and read the rest of this. Because you will thank me, in the end, for not bringing our weekend vibes into your life.

For the first 103 miles, V screamed almost non-stop. I wish I was exaggerating, but she was exhausted and wouldn't sleep in the car, and I felt like turning back to home 206 times or so. But we had a wedding to go to on Saturday, and a birthday party on Sunday, and Myra was with us, and darn it, if I turned around then, the terrorist would win.

So we pressed on. One stop at a nearby Target and two complete meltdowns later, we were back in the car (V in her jammies, this time) and she was sound asleep before we were out of the Target parking lot.


The next morning found Myra and Kathy (our gracious hostess) checking out the new boulevard garden, with V toddling along behind.
For me, though, the weekend was pretty much already shot. I mean, any sane person would've downed a pint of whiskey and moved on, but it was just not an option this weekend. The thing is, V was really largely pleasant after the car ride from hell.


Above are some of our friends from brunch, where there was bacon and laughing and three tired mamas with their energetic daughters and two grandmas happy not to be in the "tired mama" camp any more.

Here are photos from the wedding (which reminds me: can Em or Jen or Kathy e-mail the information for Meagan's flickr page so I can add these?). Though I loved our wedding, I tell you what, I loved this wedding, too. Gunny sacks, squash, and candy corn decorations? And check out that awesome red flower (which I think is called a cock's comb, but makes me think of bloody brains). Luscious decorations at a park pavillion on a gorgeous early autumn (technically end of summer) day.
I love this picture of Mark. I remember the day he was born.
The bride and groom. Please note the bouquet: it's a bunch of beets. How brilliant is that? I love beet bouquets, and I didn't even know it.

Here is fearless V on the monkey bars.

Such joy and bravery, eh?

Until the ride home, when the screaming recommenced.

Out of desperation, Grandma Myra sat in the backseat and read the three books we had along over and over and over.

If Grandma hadn't been there? I would probably have parked the car and just started walking, alone, praying for a bus to run me over.

Three looks like it's gonna be a doozy of a year.

Death to plagiarists

I've mentioned Kate of sweet/salty here before, and encountered her blog when she first had given birth to her twins sons, prematurely, about a year ago. Her honest writing, willingness to share profound pain, and clear and present words kept me reading, and I came to care about her and her family. Today, she posted about her writing being stolen from her, and I am sickened by it. I mean, I am a veteran of plagiarism. As a college English instructor for the last ten years, I have encountered dozens, maybe a hundred, examples of blatant plagiarism, and hundreds more of so close to plagiarism I can smell it (if not prove it). Each time I catch a cheater, I'm furious and feel betrayed and disgusted, and I never look at the student the same way again.

But what Kate describes in today's post? I can't even fathom it. Shaun's stance is generally "What did you expect? The internet's a big place, and people are assholes." Which, okay, it's true, but seriously? What is wrong with people? In the time it takes this Nico guy to alter her words, he could have written about his own life. The same is true of my students. For me, though, this stealing seems worse even the stuff my students pull.

Ugh. What do you think? Is this worse than academic cheating? What should this guy's punishment be? I mean, I'd like to brand him with a "P" on his forehead, but I suppose that's a bit extreme...

Nasty.

Don't steal words. It sucks.

I mean, it makes me think of this story, which ends with the words "The key in this thing is you've got to lock your doors when you go to bed at night."

Today's e-mail to my sister. Verbatim.

Lord, woman, I could've used a break this morning.

I think my child would make Osama Bin Laden cry. Maybe that should be our new military strategy: sic V on him.

Scene: She's playing with her dollies in her shopping cart. I am staring blankly at a newish episode of Little Bill, as it is only 7:30 am. Suddenly things get quiet in the dining room/kitchen, never a good sign.

"V?" No answer. Another bad sign. I start to get up, then I hear something small, round, and chocolatey hit the floor. Dozens of small, round chocolatey things. A whole bag full.

By the time I round the corner to the kitchen, she's got her mouth stuffed TO THE LIMIT with peanutbutter M &Ms. They are all over the floor, my white kitchen floor that I mopped for the first time in a year two days ago. They are all over the floor along with a glass of water she poured over them just to piss me off (I can't imagine any other reason to pour water over M & Ms. Because they melt in your mouth. Or in a glass of water on my kitchen floor).

I pick her up, remove her to the dining room, where she commences chewing. I commence to clean up M & Ms and their rainbow stickyness.

Did I mention this was at 7:*&^#$:30?

I know we should've had the M & Ms higher up or not in the house or just already on the floor, as all of these would've been better options.

Do you mind if I cut and paste this into a blog post? Because I'm too lazy not to, and I don't have any secret M &Ms left with which to comfort myself. This is why I shop for shoes. Because it's the only joy left.

gak.

Please won't you be....my neighbor.

Update on the Joe Homeless front: our neighbor who owns the property (and trailer) came last night and moved Joe Homeless and his special lady friend on out. She called and apologized profusely to Shaun, then came to the door and apologized in person to me. It's hard, because this woman has been kind to us all 6 years we've lived here, but was clearly making really bad choices by hiring alcoholic homeless folks and allowing them to live in our driveway. She promised to move the trailer to another location, to avoid leading the alcoholic homeless folks into temptation, and promised to help us with anything we needed.

So, a tentative resolution to our sticky wicket. Thank you for all the impassioned commenters, too, hey. I had no idea so many of you would offer advice! I should ask for input more often, I guess.

The moral of our story is, um, don't let alcoholic homeless folks push you around. I think.

Like a good neighbor...

Remember Joe, the good guy who lives in our driveway? Yeah, me too.

Yesterday, I was coming back into the house from hanging laundry on the line, and noticed something odd. I decided to take pictures for your viewing enjoyment.

This is the north (far) side of the Trailer in Our Driveway Where Random Homeless People Have Been Living. See the orange cord coming through the window?

This is the hitch on the east side of the TiODWRHPHBL. See the orange cord looping around there? That red Buick on the left belongs to us. The little line of greenery coming through the pavement? That's the property line. (See, technically, the trailer is not in our Driveway, but in our neighbor's, which abuts ours).

Anyone see where this is going? Here is a large amount of orange cord on the south side of the TiODWRHPHBL. Across the property line. That hopscotch board? Yeah, Joe doesn't much play hopscotch, I'm guessing. At any rate, that hopscotch board under all that orange cord is V's. And it's all in OUR driveway.

This? This is the other end of the orange extension cord. That outlet? That's our house.

My first thought was utter disbelief. Seriously? We call the cops on these people and a week later they are STEALING OUR ELECTRICITY? SERIOUSLY? My second thought? "Where're my pruning shears." But instead, I showed Shaun, and he unplugged it. We called our neighbor, the one who owns the house and the trailer and apparently allows and/or encourages homeless people with alcohol and anger management issues to live inches away from us. We left a message on what may or may not be her answering maching. I figured that would be it (because I am a simple woman. And I don't want to have to dull my pruning shears).

This morning? This morning it was plugged in again. Like, Joe came home last night, noticed we had unplugged his STOLEN ELECTRICITY, and thought, huh, wonder how that happened, and pluggedit back in. So I sent Shaun out, and he unplugged it, and knocked politely on the door to the TiODWRHPHBL. Luckily (?) Joe (and a bonus lady friend) was still home. "Yeah," Shaun said, diplomatically. "Don't plug your power cord into our house." "Well, this house [whose driveway the trailer is actually in] lost power a couple of days ago." Really, Joe? Really? Because you saying that makes it sound like you think it's okay to just steal people's electricity, or at best borrow it without asking, and I don't care how long you've been homeless and/or drunk, but WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT WAS OKAY? Shaun said, "Yeah, well, don't plug your power cord into our house." He made me put away my pruning shears.

So...ish-da. I mean, maybe we should've called the cops the second time. Maybe we should've .... cut the cord with pruning shears. But we're trying to maintain some semblance of a relationship with the woman who owns the property next door (who, granted, continues to hire RHP to live in our driveway), since we may be here for another decade or more. Any suggestions? Because I'm starting to get really really annoyed with this whole deal.

This aggression will not stand.

So the homeless guy who lives in our driveway showed us this picture today, which he had cut out of the newspaper. Then he gave V some chocolate covered graham crackers and explained to me how he is a good guy, and that though he understood why we called the cops on him and his cohorts two days ago, it made him sad.

While he was telling me this, I realized it was 10:30am, and he was already (still?) drunk.

Now I appreciate the plight of homeless people, and I don't even mind too much when they live in my driveway, but since V was born, I find myself less sympathetic when screaming fights break out at midnight. In my driveway. And things and people get thrown around. Right under my daughter's bedroom window.

Because even if he has a thing for unicorns, that doesn't necessarily mean he won't hurt me and mine.

Deer me. What's a bleeding heart to do?

Pushing back the walls of ignorance

Lately I've been trying to write here about things besides V, though I know she is why many of you come here. It just helps me to remember that I'm not just a mama. Which is not to minimize mamahood, mind you...

Anyway, I haven't talked much about work here, mainly because 1. I'm not yet tenured (June! Hopefully!) and 2. I have an irrational fear of getting dooced, so named for Heather Armstrong of Dooce (you should totally click on her link, because right now she's got a video of Prince covering Radiohead, and that is worth clicking, if you ask me). It's funny, really, because I have nothing negative to say about this job 99.99% of the time. I love teaching, love my students, love my colleagues, love our administration. But lately, things have become excruciatingly difficult. Teaching, colleages, administration is all good. Which leaves, of course, students. Student, really...anyway, this is the hardest thing I've encountered in ten years of teaching. Ten years! Think of how many students....a thousand?

In light of the excruciatingness of all this, I thought I'd post this poem I wrote a few years ago about why I teach. I wrote it as an example for students who were writing a "this is the way" poem and didn't understand how to do it. As such, it still reads like a creative writing exercise, but I'm comfortable with that. Today, I need to remember why I do this job.

THIS IS THE WAY
And this is the way you worry about your lisp and enunciate to correct it; and this is the way you think hard before getting a visible tattoo; and this is the way you stay awake at night wondering if they’re learning and trying to finish your grading and thinking up new assignments; and this is the way they don’t know how to spell; and this is the way they lie to your face and you have to hear the truth somewhere inside; and this is the way you learned how to tell the difference between morning sickness and a hangover; and this is the way you teach birth control and prenatal care even though it’s a writing class; and this is the way you ask the girl with the finger-mark bruises on both arms who did this to her and she stares at you blankly and says “Did what?”; and this is the way you see their hurt and wish you could take it away; and this is the way you mourn students who’ve died of meningitis or in a car accident or who hung themselves in their dorm room; and this is the way you care about students beyond what you ever expected; and this is the way they see the world completely differently from you; and this is the way they make you feel alive and this the way you want them all to be healthy and joyful and kind; and this is the way your friends have jobs they leave behind on the weekend and you don’t; and this is the way they race around your brain and make your head and arms and heart ache all day long; and this is the way you push them to think for themselves, and this is the way your tires get slashed, and someone threatens to blow your head off with a shotgun; and this is the way you keep your phone number unlisted and try not to love them too much; and this is the way you hold them too close sometimes; and this is the way you need summers off; and this is the way they show up in your dreams almost every night; and this is the way, in the end, that you teach.

Yer slacking on the blog posts, hey.

My sister said that to me yesterday, so here I am, caving to her pressure and posting. That is pretty much how we talk to each other, too. At any rate, if this sucks, you can blame her.

A couple years ago, I was looking out our kitchen window in mid-April and I felt this huge weight lift from my shoulders. I just suddenly felt this immense relief, and I realized it was the coming of spring. I know about Seasonal Affective Disorder, and I know winter sucks, but it wasn't until that April day that I felt it so concretely. That sense of relief is something I'm anxiously awaiting, now. The end of February is in sight, and then brutal March, and then wet crappy April...

Well, I'm not cheering myself up at all. Harumph.

Here's a picture my mom took a few weeks ago. This time of year, when we sometimes have heavy morning fog which leads to this beautiful crystal white frosting, can be quite lovely. I drove V to Hendrum one such morning, just after the fog lifted, and we watched the sun melt the frost from the treeline. It was really kinda magical.

Speaking of frost, here's evidence that fatherhood is impacting Shaun. The white beard is less noticable if he keeps it trimmed, but this grizzled look is more his way. He's so cute.

Just a little rant...

I saw this on the blog How About Orange, and felt it my duty to share it with you. If you really loved me, you'd buy it for me.

In How About Orange's comments, someone pointed out it looks like a tiny casket, but I don't care. If you know me, you know that only increases my love of it.

Honestly, this is one of those things that I can not justify spending money on now (or ever, really) but I will think of it for the rest of my life. Damn. I hate that. Other things in this category, you ask? Mostly funky furniture pieces from the thrift store that I passed up because I was either too broke or didn't know anyone with a pickup/vehicle large enough to bring it home for me. An especially well-kept sofa-chair set from the 1940s comes to mind. In that dusty 40s green. It had been kept under plastic, I think, for 60 years. The thrift store wanted $60 for both, but by the time I realized I would hate my life if I didn't buy it, it was gone. So here I sit, not on a 1940s chenille green sofa. Ugh.

I haven't posted in awhile, partly because I'm busy with work and all that, but partly because I was getting a little weary of blogland. I subscribe to about 40 blogs (meaning there's a central location I go to look and see if they've been updated, through Bloglines (that link might even take you to my list. Or maybe not. I don't know how this magic computer thing works).

Anyway, mostly I've been reading craft blogs and crafty-mom blogs, as you can (maybe)see. A few of those are blogs of real life friends, too...as for the non-real-life ones, most of the time they'r just a lovely diversion, a place to find covet-worthy orange casket prams and whatnot. But after Christmas I got a bad case of wanties over the life people present on their blogs and how far my life is from that. I know, intellectually, that their lives are shit sometimes, too, and sometimes the laundry doesn't get done and they're late on the eletric bill and their 2 year old cries every time you tell her she can't have a 17th piece of cheese.

But no one blogs about that. At least no one I was reading. No one takes pictures of the mess in the sink that's been there for two weeks and growing its own community. Or maybe that's just in my sink.

And that's the thing: I was feeling so much like it WAS just me. I know enough about the internet to know that this is the way the web works. It makes people/things/the world look simpler (and often more attractive) than it really is. But knowing that did not keep me from feeling guilty that we don't eat more homecooked organic vegan meals, or resentful toward my tv lovin' husband (I love tv too. I'm not saying it was logical resentment).

So I took a step back, and focused on other type of blogs that didn't make me feel so slovenly. And I'm trying to spend more time with flesh and blood friends: Crystal and Todd came over last week for RockBand Festival I, and we're hoping K.C. and Nancy will come play cards/Catan with us soon, and V's friend McKenna can come over and discuss the intricacies of Dora the Explorer with her. This helps. Remembering that I started reading blogs for inspiration, not condemnation, helps too.

At any rate, it's all such a fine line. Sometimes I fall off the line and it catches me under the chin and stings. But I still like the line and want to participate in/on it. And sometimes I just take a metaphor beyond ridiculous.

To end on a happier note, here are the cousins, rolling around at Grandma Myra's one weekend afternoon. They get so excited when they're together that sometimes they just fall down and roll. Hilarious. I especially love Will's face in the second photo.




1940s sofa or not, life's not all bad afterall. I can always just roll on the floor awhile.

Terrible Twos

I need ten more posts to have as many this year as last year, so just sit back and enjoy how verbose I can be if I let myself.

V's other new thing, aside from KISS, is screaming. All-out, full-body, top-of-my-lungs, help-me-you-idiots screaming. I imagine I probably did this as a child, too, as I am known throughout Hendrum for my temper. (I exaggerate. Or rather, my mother does). But I was suprised to see the Johnson rage rear its ugly head so early with my offspring. We are managing, through a three-pronged approach of ignoring, distracting, and drinking heavily, to weather this storm. Now normally, Jess and I can compare notes when the kids hit a certain stage. Teething? Walking? Will went first. Talking? V's arena. Sweet-tempered Will, however, has not inherited the Johnson rage, apparently, but instead his father's observant tendencies. In their carseats in cold December sunlight, this makes for a lovely contrast.

Get the lead out

I had lots of punny titles for this post: Unleadened bread, leadless horsemen...I went with the obvious. But notice I didn't HAVE to go with the obvious. I chose to seem less creative.

First, let me say that my ideal winter holiday, truly, would be one where everyone gets two shiny pennies and an orange. Or some such thing. Maybe a whistle Pa whittled for you out of that old pine tree branch that fell down out back in the storm last fall. And that's it. But, as my Shaun likes to point out, in my family presents equal love, and the amount of love is directly proportionate to the cost of the present. An orange and two shiny pennies=the love you feel for your ratty old slippers that you never really liked but wore anyway because they were there.

My dearest friend, Tenessa, and I have overcome this cost of presents=love thing by buying many thrift-store treasures for each other. We find it thrilling to surprise one another with presents that cost less than $5 yet seem incredibly indulgent. But not everyone shares this passion for bargains.

Having V has also heightened my senses about the holidays considerably. I don't want her to be greedy, nor do I want her to be buried under a pile of toys she doesn't really love or use. At the time, I recognize that she would both adore and play with a Dora the Explorer doll, but something about this product placement in our lives creeps me out. Also, though, it's hard for me to stand up and say "Hey! World! Nothing with batteries, okay? And nothing made of plastic." Because that pretty much eliminates most of the places the people I love like to shop. Also, I didn't realize until recently how much I didn't like the plastic stuff, so it's sort of like changing the rules of a game in the third inning. I'm not ready to do that. But I am ready to reflect on the upcoming hoildays in a mindful way, and direct people who might be looking for direction to some places I think seem really cool.

Normally I try not to think about gifts until Thanksgiving, but the toy recalls have me really kinda bothered. But .... it's the holidays, a time when I can't control (much) what comes in to our toybox. At least, I don't feel like I can, yet. Beyond our own influx, I also want to give gifts to children I love: our family and loved ones and friends turned family, and of course V and Will. On the one hand, I can't afford to be all "here ya go, cousins..." fourteen times. But I do believe that gifts made not of plastic, with less likelihood of being covered in toxic crap, can be found, often affordably and beautifully. To that end, I've been compiling some links that you can share with people who shop for your wee one, if you have one, or where you can shop for wee ones you like.

Stump Pond Toys: This is through etsy, an online conglomeration of independent salespeople, many of whom sell handmade wares. This guy is just one of many, but I like the name "Stump Pond" a lot.

Palumba: Another etsy seller. Palumba is just fun to say.

Willow Toys: Lovely castles and dollhouses. Really lovely.

Quiet Hours Toys: Um, yeah. Here. Now you're done shopping forever, and me and V will love you everytime we play with this.

Casey's Wood Products: I hesitate to put this one on here, because I intend to use this in my own shopping. If you think you and yours might be one of the aforementioned 14, just skip the rest of this. Otherwise, Casey's is not just a toy company, at all, this is a great place (with great prices) to buy supplies. They have doll forms and fruit and little boxes and acorns. You can get 100 acorns for $16! If you were 4, wouldn't you swoon a little over a handful of those? Well, I would've, anyway.

Rosie Hippo’s Toys: Rosie's got lots of great stuff. I use this site for inspiration sometimes. I wish someone would make us or give us some of these. They just look like fun.

I'm also going to make gifts this year. I write this down for several reasons, but one of them is to warn the blessed fourteen that they may be receiving some slightly wonky plush toys from me this year, instead of purchased things. This was hard for me to decide, actually, because I am still a moderate sewer, and to give something as "the" gift that was handmade, even with love, seems cheap to me, still. It's not, of course: I finished one toy after 2 evenings (about 5 hours) of sewing by hand. Even if I pay myself a moderate $9 an hour, this is a $45 gift even before materials. And I do sew with thoughtfulness, considering the recipient and stitching with positive energy inasmuch as I know how. In the end, I had to think of it this way: if a dear friend of mine made a gift for V, how would I feel? Would I think they were being cheap? Not at all! I'd be touched and excited and moved. So in the end, if anyone doesn't feel that way, they can take their handmade gift and stick it in their ear.

Of course, if you've already shopped for V, and you've purchased the Deluxe Plastic Stuff boxed set, I'm sure she'll love it and it will be fine. Please don't feel bad.

This post is obviously very wishy-washy , which is one of my greatest flaws. I have a hard time being firm about anything, and not just my abs. The only place I'm firm is in the classroom, actually. The one thing I can firmly say, though, that if you buy us that wooden barn stable, I will thank you with all the wonky fabric toys you can carry.

Why I teach

I teach because there is no real living to be made as a poet these days. I teach because my mother taught, and three of my aunts taught, and my grandmothers were teachers of a different kind, and it is how I process the world.

Today I asked 20 young people in my classroom, all under 30, all over 18, to name one female supreme court justice.

Twenty Americans of voting age.

No one could even come up with part of either name. Now I know there have only been two, and perhaps when I was in college....no, I know that's not true. I have known the name Sandra Day O'Connor since she was appointed in 1981. I was 8. Ruth Bader Ginsberg missed an awful lot of limelight being second. But they both have nice long names, and I was so hopeful that at least part of one of them would come up in class.

This is almost as bad as last semester, when I asked three separate sections of students, totalling 75 people, to tell me the year the Civil War ended. Someone got as close as 1850, which is pretty close, considering many thought it was around the time Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot.

At any rate, I teach because I want people to know things. I want them to know why it's important, and how good it feels to have context. Of course, I can lead the horses to water, but I can't hold their heads under and make them drink: so I try to be satisfied just getting them close to the water and hoping they figure it out.

In other news, my latest attempt at an extreme closeup. I love wood. I love how it ages, how it changes color. As I was putting these together, the oldest one crumbled a bit in my fingers. I love how that feels.


Next spring we'll set up a little clothesline for the daughter. It's high time she learned to do some chores.

My dear stalkers...

Hi, stalker friends. Those of you who want to hear back from me who don't use Blogger should include in your comment some way to reach you: Pete and Laurie, for example, I know you commented ages ago, and we love and miss you and have your wedding picture on our fridge, but we don't have a way to reach you.

And Sam? I hope you're my former student Sam, and not some one I forgot I dated at one time...but I can't find a way to reach you, either.

If you are squeamish about leaving a blogpost comment that includes an e-mail address, well, you can reach me at johnsonnumber9 (at) yahoo (dot) com. [edited to take out creepy rant...please disregard...]
For those of you not stalking me or who already know how to reach me, here's a picture, because what's the point of a post without a picture? This one is from the zoo, too, and her t-shirt has a little chick and a broken egg, and says "You crack me up." And she does crack me up, all the time.