Thanksgiving

This is one of my favorite portraits of Lincoln. It was taken by Alexander Gardner, and there is something about it that just seems different than any of his other portraits as president. There is something about his expression that seems much more human, less posed; you can see a tiredness, but also kindness, compassion, humor, you can tell he has experienced trials, but has not become embittered. 

That is why it seems so fitting that, in 1863, Lincoln was the president to proclaim Thanksgiving a national holiday. The United States was in the middle of the only civil war it would ever (hopefully) experience. Americans were killing each other by the thousands (7,000 died in the first twenty minutes of the battle at Antietam), others were dying from the disease and deprivation engendered by war. His eleven year old son, Willie, had been a victim, probably of typhoid fever, only the year before.  His wife, who was often a source of great concern for Lincoln, was so distraught at the death of the boy that it was feared she was finally losing her sanity. The country had divided immediately upon his election, and his Emancipation Proclamation, issued in January of that year, further divided sentiments and alienated even many Northerners. In short, he had many trials, both personal and public. Yet, even in the midst of all of this, he chose to acknowledge the blessings of God, both on himself and his country. This, to me, is what the true idea of Thanksgiving is-kind of like Jeffrey R. Holland writes at the end of Shepherd's, Why This Jubilee? (one of the most fabulous books ever written. Seriously. Anyway...). Speaking of Simeon, who met Mary and Joseph in the temple as they were going to offer a sacrifice of doves (the substitute allowed for those who were too poor to afford a lamb, which tells you of the circumstances in which Mary and Joseph found themselves as they became not only first time parents, but parents to the savior of all mankind-it makes you stop and think about giving thanks, trials, blessings and the true meaning of all of it) after the birth of Jesus. Elder Holland writes that, "not in the absence of hard days and long years but because of them..." that Simeon was able to look upon the Christ child and rejoice.  I particularly love that phrase. Hard days can become long years, there is no denying that. But throughout even those hard years (or even those difficult first months of living away from home for the first time) are moments which can be seen glimpses of Heavenly Father's love for us. 
Einstein once said that there are two ways to look at the world, one is that nothing is a miracle, the other is that everything is a miracle. It makes me think of Emerson's essay on nature; he discusses how we really take the beauty of it for granted because it is always visible to us. Yet, he writes, "If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown!" Life is hard, but it is harder when we refuse to acknowledge the blessings we do have, even if we think they aren't enough.
If everything is a miracle, as Einstein suggests, then that includes trials. I'm not speaking from a lofty point of success when I say this, because I still would rather avoid difficult things if at all humanly possible. But, in the past few months I have seen that trials are interesting things-they aren't fun but they force us to do things we didn't think we could. It is like one of the general authorities said, when relating the story of Abraham and Isaac; Abraham was asked to do the unthinkable-to sacrifice his beloved son, the child he had been promised after years of struggle, the child through whom he had been promised multitudes of posterity. I can only imagine how I would have responded, after all, it probably seemed as if the Lord were reneging on His promises, something we've been taught is impossible if we fulfill our end of the bargain, which, I dare say, Abraham was doing. But, he explained, the Lord knew all along what Abraham would do, so why was he made to endure such an agonizing experience? Because Abraham needed to learn something about Abraham. C.S. Lewis wrote that within each of us is the potential to become gods and goddesses. But to see that potential, we must learn things about ourselves that we didn't think were possible. And often, the only way to do that is through trials. He also wrote (speaking from vast personal experience), "Pain hurts, but you you learn." It is as simple and as difficult as that. 
So, even though it doesn't seem natural (and actually, I don't think it is natural, to be honest. That is why I'm still having difficulties learning this particular lesson...), even the hard things are signs that Heavenly Father wants what is best for us. I remember one particularly hard day I was thinking things over, wondering what I was doing wrong that made it necessary for me to have to learn so many things the hard way. Why I was so stubborn that I continually set myself up for having to learn lessons in the most difficult manner. Then I had the thought-there is no easy way to learn some things. As funny as it sounds, that little epiphany has made a big difference. Because Heavenly Father loves us, He wants us to see ourselves as He sees us, to see what we have the potential to do and become. Often, the only way to show us, to teach us what we have within ourselves, that which He values the most in us, we have to learn hard lessons. 
But, it is like Elder Holland writes, "'You can't separate Bethlehem from Gethsemane or the hasty flight into Egypt from the slow journey to the summit of Calvary. It's of one piece. It is a single plan. It considers 'the fall and rising again of many in Israel,' but always in that order. Christmas is joyful not because it is a season or decade or lifetime without pain and privation, but precisely because life does hold those moments for us. And that baby, my son, my own beloved and Only Begotten Son in the flesh, born 'away in a manger, [with] no crib for his bed,' makes all the difference in the world, all the difference in time and eternity, all the difference everywhere, worlds without number, a lot farther than your eye can see.'"    
That is why I think Lincoln was the perfect man to set aside a day of thanksgiving. He knew well of the 'pain and privations' life can hold for us. Yet, he also knew of the love of Heavenly Father, blessing us both with the abundance of wonderful things in this life as well as the trials which force us to grow in ways we never thought possible. So, as I've gotten older I've come to love Thanksgiving and Christmas for very different reasons than when I was young. I apologize for the preachiness of this post, but Thanksgiving, this year in particular, has come to hold a place in my heart, and a meaning that doesn't have much to do with the food, or even the history. (I know, right? Kind of shocking, isn't it?) I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, with lots of love, friendship and good food, and that the Christmas season will be filled with more of the same. 

(P.S.-I don't know why, but for some reason, blogspot is being a bit difficult and will not let me leave comments. It is very frustrating. But I'm grateful, even for that trial....sort of....but it is still irritating. So I'm sorry I haven't been leaving comments (I've tried, believe me), but thanks everyone for your kind comments, and I do enjoy reading your blogs. Maybe one of these days blogspot will decide to let me leave that in a comment.....) 

By Request

Daniel-If you like British mysteries, read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie-Alan Bradley and A Beautiful Blue Death or The September Society, both by Charles Finch.

The Bradley novel is set in a small village in England in the early 1950's and the main character is a young girl of about twelve or so, which sounds like it would be really juvenile, but it isn't, I promise.  I has a lot of good sarcastic lines, and she is a chemistry child prodigy, so it has some interesting information about that, as well.  One of my favorite lines is "Communicating with Ned was like trading cabled messages with a slow reader in Mongolia" or something to that effect. Lots of sarcasm, so it is pretty funny.

Charles Finch majored in History and English at Yale and got a master's from Oxford, so he has a lot of interesting information about 19th century England, but also manages not to suck all of the interest out of it by making it insanely dry like some historians are apt to do. The mysteries involve murders and such, but they aren't gruesome or anything-from what I remember, they're pretty clean books, no profanity, etc. (Like I say, from what I remember. Don't quote me on that; if something does show up, sorry about that, I really, honestly don't remember anything offensive. Of course, it has been a while since I read them and my memory is unreliable to say the least.)

No movie recommendations so far, I'm afraid. Not much comes out during the summer-and I'm afraid that, try as I might, I just can't muster up too much enthusiasm for the next Twilight movie......go figure.

Grad School Can Turn You Into a Poet-Or not

Well, prior to the eventful weather occurrences of last week, the fall semester began.  Here at the beach house we had, and I kid you not, a tornado on Monday, an earthquake on Tuesday and a hurricane on Friday.  Not good for my pre-semester jitters.  By the time the nervousness of a new semester and the onslaught of natural events of a particularly sinister type were over I was nearly ready to invest in some white pajamas and take up ping-pong.....Actually, that's a lie. I didn't even know about the tornado until Tuesday, so worrying about it was completely useless by that point, the novelty of experiencing an earthquake made it a little more exciting than upsetting, and I slept through the hurricane.....However, the thought of the semester beginning did have me eyeing Krispy Kreme donuts with nothing short of envy and greed, but I satisfied myself with working my way through two packages of Chips Ahoy in as many days. 
And yet, as with so many other things in my life, I seem to have wasted a good stress for nothing.  So far, it seems as if this semester may prove to be a bit less.......hmmmm, how shall I put this......ummmmmm "murderous"?  "devastating"? "turn you into Haley Joel Osment in 'The Sixth Sense'"? (you know, that "freaked out, maladjusted, tortured kid with a white patch in his head from all of the trauma of conversing with dead people" kind of basket case).   Anyway, like I said, seems like this semester might be a trifle more manageable.  Which in itself has me worried.  I mean, does this mean it actually will be better or is it just lulling me into a false sense of security before it springs the whole, "All the better to EAT you with, my dear!!!!" on you right before you're ravenously devoured in one bite?  Or maybe I'm just beginning to suffer from Stockholm Syndrome?  How do you know if you're experiencing Stockholm Syndrome symptoms?  I mean, it isn't like it is listed on Medline Plus' website or anything.  (It really isn't-I checked.)  So, anyway, as I was sitting in class, my mind began to wander (don't worry, mother, it was only the last five minutes or so...I think?) and here is the result of said wandering.  While I am no poet, I recognized as a child that my strengths leaned more to the prose end of the spectrum, here is my humble contribution to the world of Stockholm Syndromed Graduate Student Poetry.  I hear the market for it is growing.......


To all Grad students far from home
Beware of a syndrome currently on loan
From that city in Sweden called Stockholm.


The disease, while not mortal,
Though this may make you chortle,
Creates such confusion
Indeed, the delusion
That one's captor means no harm,
Even has a certain charm;
And who, in the end,
May even be a friend.


This is rather unfortunate,
For no matter how importunate,
While attending university
It's nearly a dead certainty-
A hostage striving for academic potential
Usually just ends up a tiny bit mental.


All in all I think it was a pretty productive first day of class.

How the World of Dating is Like 'The Wizard of Oz'

Sorry, nope, the clip doesn't have anything to do with the post, but it just seemed fitting considering my lengthy absence.  Plus, Eddie Murphy totally makes that movie.  But yep, I am still alive.  Promise.  Anyway, I have to admit that while such a lengthy absence would in other circumstances result in a profound, well-written, well-researched post by someone else, such is not the case.  Instead, my "comeback tour" post is the result of one of those afternoons when your mind wanders in that harmlessly aimless manner of that one slightly senile yet amiable relative who shuffles around in nothing but a bathrobe and slippers at Christmas dinner.  So, during this mind-stroll through a Sunday afternoon park, I began to think how the world of dating is remarkably similar to Frank L. Baum's children's classic The Wizard of Oz.  It would take too long, and admittedly it would be too boring, to explain how my mind wandered into this train of thought, so I'll just skip the introduction.  
(Personally, The Wizard of Oz for me resembles dating in that it is a complete fiction that takes place in an alternate reality.  Grad school is like taking the cloth and a vow of silence.  Except you still have to decide what to wear every day.  This all began when I was thinking about the current state of the economy, which led to thinking about how in the 1960's it was argued by one writer that the classic novel was actually a political argument in favor of bimetallism, which supporters claimed would stabilize a similarly bottomed-out economy in the early twentieth century.  This led to remembering the time when I told that story during a conversation on a date, which apparently was not a "date-like" thing to say, as it effectively ended both the conversation and the date.  Which is when I first began to suspect that I would completely suck at dating; it was a rare moment of pure clairvoyance...Okay, so I gave the introduction anyway.)  Anyway, here's how dating is like The Wizard of Oz:

First, the shoes.  The shoes are the key to the whole thing, everything revolves around the shoes.  The woman with the right shoes holds the power.  'nough said.  Not surprising that in the movie they were a pair of red heels.  If clothes make the man then shoes make the woman.  

When it comes to dating we are all the Cowardly Lion.  At least I know I am.  Roar? I'd rather not, thanks.  If you roar loud enough somebody might take you up on the challenge, and then where would you be?  "Think fast and you might live to lie about it."  If you're gonna growl, you've got to have the gumption to back it up-and few of us are blessed in that capacity.  Rather than live by the maxim "Leave not for tomorrow what you can do today, " I live by the advice "Run, Forrest! Run!"  And it has stood me in good stead thus far.

The Scarecrow.  Ah, the Scarecrow.  The brainless one.  I am of the opinion that love makes you stupid.  This can be good or bad-depending on how you use that stupidity.  I hate to sound cynical, but "All you need is love"?  Well, no, not really.  What you need is a steady income and a good dental plan.  So when you marry, don't marry for love, marry someone with a good, responsible, if not ten year plan, then at least ten year idea of a goal.  Or at the very least good teeth.  Love is definitely requisite for successful dating, but the brainlessly flippant, frivolous line of dating that doesn't take into consideration the impact your decisions will have on the other person which seems to be, from my general observations, so prevalent nowadays doesn't do anybody any good.  I'm sorry, but when some of the most popular t.v. shows running are shows on which self-centered, materialistic people are supposed to choose a spouse over the course of a t.v. season, the world needs help.  The field has become inundated with scarecrows. 

Dorothy: maybe it's just me, but it seems like we're all Dorothys, to a certain extent.  One second you're a country rube trying to outrun a tornado and singing about rainbows that, in your present circumstances, would only show up in varying shades of gray, and the next you're being accosted by slightly disturbingly pigmented, diminutive people who insist on singing to you in helium-saturated voices and giving you candy which may or may not be spiked, considering their current state of apparent inebriation.  You feel lost, far from home, out of your depth and thrown into the middle of a story of which you don't know the beginning and have no idea how it is going to end, but said ending nevertheless seems to depend on you.  The best you can do is make friends along the way; friends who aren't perfect, but that's alright because you're all there to help each other.  At the same time, this process can take you from a world in black and white to a world where Glenda the Good Witch can wear lipstick of a decidedly alarming shade of pink.  

Wicked Witch of the West-does the phrase green with envy seem suitable to anyone else?  (At this point I have to throw in my beef with most children's stories/fairy tales, etc.  Why is the blonde always the "good" one and the brunette the "bad" one?  Seriously?  Give us a break once in a while....At least Dorothy was a brunette.)  No matter what you look like before hand, the particular shade of green known as envy never made anyone attractive.  However, the upshot of being the Wicked Witch of the West is that you get to have an army of cyanotic, winged, simian minions to send after that cute, annoyingly perky little interloper who flounces in and successfully launches herself at every individual of the male-type within a 100-mile radius.  I could probably enjoy being the Wicked Witch.....all I require is unquestioning loyalty and a pair of opposable thumbs.

Finally, the Wizard.  Interesting tidbit about this: I once read somewhere that the coat used by the man who played the Wizard, the guard and the carriage driver, was bought at a thrift store.  When he put his hand in the pocket, he discovered a label which, on inspection, bore the name Frank L. Baum.  Weird, huh?  Anyway, the Wizard and dating.  There is no Wizard.  If there is anyone, he is just a man behind a curtain with a machine with bells and whistles.  People are just people, including us.  The "magic" isn't something someone else is creating, it is how you yourself are looking at the situation.  The world is what it has always been, the only thing that you can change is the way you personally look at it.  It is only after realizing that the "Wizard" isn't really a wizard that Dorothy realizes that she had the ability to go home all along.  Sometimes in dating, we expect the other person to make us happy.  Nobody is a wizard; other people can help us be happy, but not only is it impossible for someone else to actually make us happy all the time, it is unfair to lay that expectation on the shoulders of the other person. 

So there.  The Wizard of Oz wasn't really about bimetallism and stabilizing the economy after all, it was about dating.  Next up-Charlotte's Web.  A country fair, a pig, a spider weaving a web, a gluttonous rat...it's perfect......And who says I'm not a romantic? 

    

       

Wish Fulfillment by Proxy of the Zoo and Blogging

So, ever since I was a little kid I've dreamed of travel-of seeing the world, of distant lands with different cultures, hearing different languages, seeing different horizons, of experiencing life from a different perspective.  One of my dream careers was (is) to be a photographer/writer for National Geographic.  If I had had more guts as an undergrad I would have majored in journalism and minored in photography.  Alas, I assumed I would never be good enough to get a job with National Geographic, or, you know, a job in general with a journalism degree, so instead I majored in History.  And haven't been able to get a job.....the universe does have a sense of humor, doesn't it?  Anyway, I'm still secretly (maybe not 'secretly' now) harboring a deep rooted dream of travel and photography; so in order to fulfill part of a dream in at least a "pretend" way, I went to the zoo on Saturday and spent the day in Africa.  It was pretty awesome.  It was a tad hot, so most of the animals were smart enough to stay indoors, or just lay lifeless and lethargic under the shade of distant trees-except of course the human animals, the so called "reasoning animals," which were the only ones dumb enough to be exerting effort in 95 degree weather.  Kinda makes you wonder, eh?  Anyway, because most of them were taking it easy, I didn't get very many pictures.  I never got to see the elephants or the rhinos, the gazelles, or the gorillas.  I also didn't make it to the North America end of the zoo, as I was....how shall I put this?  completely bushed by the end of Africa.  Which taught me something-I shouldn't have been worried about my lack of skills preventing me from fulfilling my National Geographic dream, but rather the fact that I am a total wuss.  Anyway, here's what I got.....

(Oh, and P.S.-because of your post, Tim, I actually remembered to slather on a good quarter inch thick layer of sunscreen before I spent the day in the sun, so thanks! (my mother thanks you, too :) ))

 A Scarlet Ibis, as in James Hurst's short story of the same name.  I read it in my sister's English textbook one year, when I was a kid and have never gotten over  forgotten that story.  It is one that definitely sticks with you. You can read the story here.   I didn't realize this, but James Hurst actually was from North Carolina, and grew up in a town not far from where I live now.....hmmm. Might have to look into that.  Anyway, the rest of them.....



A Highschool Education

I haven't written anything in a while because, to be honest, nothing has happened which would translate well into an amusing, relatable anecdote.  And, to be honest, nothing has changed.  I don't have a funny or entertaining story to tell, no pictures to share and no exciting announcements.  The subject of this post was actually inspired by the subject of a conversation this weekend and, (and you have no idea how loath I am to admit this tidbit) a movie.  It wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, not much can outdo To Kill a Mockingbird, and it wasn't even a memorably bad movie.....it was just....alright.  But, it concerned a touchy subject for me-namely high-school.  See, most people hate high-school; I however, can claim to be an overachiever in this department, even if in no other.  Basically, my public school experience went downhill after third grade.  Kid you not.  During those tender, formative years of what people claim was my childhood-although I prefer to see it as my practice adulthood-I was in hell at least 98.9% of the time.  I repeat-it was hell.  See, here's the thing, learning was not an issue (math excepted), but relating to my fellow classmates left me sticky with a cold, sweaty panic.  Still does.  I had orthodontic work from second grade to ninth.  My hair was wild and frizzy.  I had freckles.  I was scrawny and chicken-legged with no indication that I would ever boast anything like a feminine figure.  I was, still am, ghostly white.  I liked books-strange books compared to my classmates.  Sweet Valley and the Babysitter's Club never really caught my attention, but I wanted to know about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, what happened to Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher as they wandered in the maze of caves, how Jo March fared as she pursued a career as an author.  It wasn't that I was smarter or better, I just liked different things.  This, apparently, was unacceptable.  

I still have a scar on my left elbow from an incident on the way to the cafeteria, one day in seventh grade.  We had to go around the outside of the building in order to get into the cafeteria, and the parking lot was in the process of being repaved.  Right in front of the cafeteria doors, there was a long swath a few inches wide which formed a gulf between two sections of asphalt.  It had recently rained, and so the gulf had become a small channel filled with muddy water and crumbling asphalt.  Rather than walking in single file, we were allowed to walk in a group, and so I was walking by myself in a space between other groups consisting of three or four chatty pre-teens.  Just as I came to the channel and began to step over, I received a massive shove on the back by three pairs of hands.  I fell face first into the puddle, catching the ragged edges of the pavement on the way down.  My jeans were ripped at the knees and both they and my shirt were soaking wet; both hands and forearms were slightly oozing blood from the abrasions that ran from fingertip to elbow on each arm, my left elbow sporting a jagged cut.  And these from those who claimed on odd days, to be my friends.  My mom stilled worked at the school and so I was allowed to go to her classroom to get bandaids and sympathy.  The only thing I remember, really, is the sting of peroxide and trying desperately not to burst into tears in front of a room full of kindergarteners.  Not long after, as I sat my tray down at the table where I sat simply because no objections had until then been verbalized, one of the other lunchers casually turned to me and asked why I sat where I wasn't wanted.  

Now, these may seem like juvenile and petty things to remember ten or more years later, but my point is this-when such things occur daily, hourly for years, regardless of what is preached to us, our self-esteem and self-image becomes generally and almost inevitably based on the type of treatment we receive from others.  It is easy to begin to believe that there is truth in what they say, that if it were not true, it would not be said by so many so frequently.  We begin to see ourselves as they say we are.  This leads to something known in psychology as the Looking Glass effect.  Now, I am no psychologist, and so I don't claim to know all of the details on this subject (and it has been years since I read anything about it).  The gist of it, though, as I understand it, is this: we perceive ourselves in a certain way, subconsciously we convey these perceptions to others through things such as verbal patterns, body language, etc.  They, in turn, accept these perceptions as presented by us and return them, reaffirming our perceptions of ourselves, leading us to accept what was our own opinion of ourselves as an outsider's original opinion of us.  This cycle is self-perpetuating and often enacted without either party ever be conscious of its existence.  So you see, if, during the period when children are learning to exist and function socially independent of their parents, they suffer ridicule and rejection from their peers, it often sets the course for many years to come.  The sad thing is, those who already, and I am not just talking about myself here, suffer from a dismal lack of self-esteem are juicy and vulnerable prey for the more socially fit.  Therefore, those who are least able to defend themselves become the most hunted.  

For some, it drives them to overachieve and prove their worth, for others, and I think I can safely say, for most, it becomes a stumbling block which they battle years afterwards.  It is almost like Jean Valjean in Les Miserables.  After his release from long years of imprisonment, he was given a yellow card which identified him as a former convict.  He was required by law to present this card whenever he applied for employment or moved to a new place.  Of course, no one wished to employ a convict or allow him to be their neighbor, and so the yellow card essentially extended his sentence to a life sentence.  He was imprisoned by what he had once been.  Sometimes, the scars left, and the self-perceptions we adopt in our youth, are our yellow cards.  The difference being that we condemn ourselves to carry those yellow cards in the form of low self-esteem, and fear that maybe we are as worthless as we felt, that maybe it is better if we just keep ourselves to ourselves.  It has prevented me, and I am sure many others, from accepting friendships, from applying for jobs in which they would actually excel, if they allowed themselves to try, from many other good things in life.  In short, it can affect every aspect of your life.  Without delving into any deep religious conversation, I will say this-it also prevents us from accepting blessings and gifts from a loving Father in Heaven who is probably pained by the thought that we do not love something which he so carefully and thoughtfully created-spending time to not only create a world filled with beautiful things, but to fill it with distinct and individual beings with personalities and talents, whom he considers his most precious creations and loves more than we can ever begin to fully understand.  Our worth, although it is hard to see, is in our existence.  Heavenly Father created us, and therefore we are endowed, not only with inalienable rights, but with intrinsic worth.  Although it sounds so simple, this is probably the hardest thing to accept and realize in this life.

So although it is true that highschool cheerleaders are actually the keepers of the gates of hell, it is also true that highschool is not forever-that is, of course, unless you let it be.  Those yellow cards are self-assigned.  It is not easy and it is not quick, but it is possible for things to change.  The catch is, no one is going to do it for you but yourself.  It is tough, but hey, if you've been tough enough to survive high-school, you can pretty much take it.  Right?                      

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 I love Elder Holland; I mean, I love them all, but he is one of my favorites.  I was actually thinking this morning about a few lines from one of his books, a Christmas book but still very relevant to the day.  "It is the life at the other end of the manger scene that gives this moment of nativity in Bethlehem its ultimate meaning.  Special as this child was and divine as was his conception, without that day of salvation wherein he would gain an everlasting victory over death and hell on behalf of every man, woman, and child who would ever be born-until that day should come-this baby's life and mission would not be complete.  Perhaps these parents knew even then that in the beginning of his mortal life, as well as in the end, this baby son born to them would have to descend beneath every human pain and disappointment.  He would do so, at least in part, to help those who also felt they had been born without advantage.  The true meaning, the unique and lasting and joyous meaning of the birth of this baby, would be in the life he would lead and especially in his death, in his triumphant atoning sacrifice, and in his prison-bursting resurrection." 

There's something about those middle years between being young enough that you actually look forward to being a year older and being old enough that you're impressed with how far you've made it.  During those in-between years birthdays become a trial of patience which you try to endure well but generally just try to ignore altogether.  I reached that stage when I turned seven or somewhere thereabouts.  (It's kind of like Woody Allen said, "My mother always said I was a cheerful kid until I was five years old, and then I turned gloomy."  Even though I'm no fan of Woody Allen, that's still funny.....)  Anyway, this yearly trial has recently rolled around again even though I could swear up and down it just happened six months ago.....But this time was a little different.  I received one of the best birthday gifts of all time.  Now, my mom is the master at coming up with great gifts so I've always gotten really good loot, but this year my niece outdid everyone.  She gave me a Barbie.  Belle from Beauty and the Beast, to be exact.  My sister and I did play with barbies as kids, but we never got into the obsessive collector's mindset about them that some kids do, it was more of an occasional past-time.  My Belle barbie, however, sits proudly on display in my room because it was bought with the hard earned money of a five year old who saw it in the store and remembered our conversation about Disney princesses when I said that Belle was my favorite because she liked to read.  You can't beat that.  It made me think of another birthday present I'll never forget.  I was in about second or third grade and my birthday fell on a weekday.  We were on the playground, I was on the monkey bars, when another student came running up and told me Mr. Jones wanted to see me.  Mr. Jones was one of the janitors at the school that both my sister and I attended, and where my mom worked as a teacher's assistant.  I couldn't imagine why he wanted to see me, and felt a little anxious as I couldn't help but think that I might be in trouble, even though I couldn't imagine what I'd done.  (Apparently I've always had some anxiety about being summoned before any sort of authority figure....)  I still remember what the empty gym looked like as it came into focus as my eyes adjusted after being out in the bright sun for so long.  Mr. Jones was standing by the stage with one of those long push-brooms in one hand.  I didn't really know what to say as I walked up since I still didn't really know why I was there and "Hey, Mr. Jones" didn't seem very respectful or appropriate, and I was even less chatty then than I am now, believe it or not.  As I walked up, he said, "I heard today was your birthday."  I kind of did a half shrug and nod, a little embarrassed by the flush of pride I felt that, at least today, something made me different and maybe a little bit special, and wondering how he even knew it was my birthday.  He reached into his pocket and took out two dollar bills, "I guess you need something for that, then," and handed over the two bills that I knew, even then somehow, that he worked very hard for.  "Alright, go on back out and play, but just don't tell everybody where you got that," he grinned.  Knowing that this wasn't a privilege everyone got made it even more special, and suddenly I felt even more shy.  I think I mumbled something along the lines of a thank you and smiled at the floor before running back out to the playground.  But even all these years later, I still remember those two dollars, not because it was flashy or expensive, but because of the effort that went into earning them and the kindness they represented.  I have a feeling that, years down the road, I'll remember this barbie for the same reasons.   

This is what envy looks like

This has always been one of my favorite pieces.  Along with this and Chopin's "Fantasie Impromptu" it has been one of those "You-Know-It'll-Never-Come-True" dreams for me.  I want to be able to do this.  On one piano.  At all.  Ever. 


And this is one of my absolute most favorite hymns.  The world really is such a beautiful place, when you stop and look.  It's like my niece once said when she was still just a little thing, "You know it is going to be a good day when the birds sing."

The weather here has been fantastic the past couple of days, so I decided to do a little exploring.  Then, this weekend, my mom came to visit and we spent the day in some gardens in this area.  The day was kind of chilly and overcast, but not bleak, because everything was so colorful and smelled so fresh and alive.  Let's just say, the weather and the gardens so did not make me not want to move to England/Ireland.  Right now.  Ship my stuff later.....and send tickets for my family to come visit soon, since I've learned I have a rather difficult time being too far away from them for too long......But, you know, for England/Ireland, I think I could learn.  Then we went to the annual festival for the town I live in.  It was alright, but after about two seconds of being walled in by people on all sides, I felt I'd experienced all I needed to experience.  But, the good thing of all of it was that there was a guy on the sidewalk outside of an "Irish pub" playing the bagpipes.  I took a few pictures, but frankly, I think it weirded him out a little that I was sticking a camera in his face and taking more than one shot.  But you know, 1. he's playing the bagpipes-not something you see around here frequently.  2. it was during a festival-there were approximately five gazillion people milling around-somebody's going to take a picture (or five) 3. you're wearing a kilt. not to be confused with a skirt, the kilt is a solidly manly piece of clothing.  girls like musical manly men.  the end.

Robinson Crusoe Syndrome

I remember reading Robinson Crusoe for the first time and receiving quite a shock.  You grow up knowing the general idea of the story: young man runs away and signs on a ship.  Said ship goes down.  Young man survives and is stranded on an island.  Young man waits to be rescued, gives up and decides to make the best of it.  After trial and error period during which he become Middle-Aged man, he manages to live in some comfort, albeit solitary and somewhat lonely comfort.  Then Middle-Aged man is sent a Friend named Friday.  Blah-Blah, Middle-Aged man now Old(ish) man is rescued and returns home.  The only thing is, nobody ever tells you as a kid that Friday was a cannibal.  When I read RC the first time and found out that Friday was a fan of the alternate white meat it nearly put me off the book.  Anyway, after having spent two days in an involuntary vow of silence, I realized I was beginning to suffer from Robinson Crusoe Syndrome.  When you start mentally laughing at your own lame jokes, you know its time to get out for a bit.  So, I took it upon myself today to treat myself to the aquarium.  Although I must admit I'm not really a particular fan of anything cold-blooded (or anything with more than four legs or less than two), it was a really nice trip.  Plus, it's been months since I've touched my camera (and I can tell), so I took a few pictures.  I haven't really photoshopped many of them yet, but once I do, I'll post some more.  (I have a new friend now; the albino alligator and I bonded as we commiserated together over our lack of melanin and how it decreased our ability to survive in the great outdoors.....)