Daddy Or Something

Bovine Spongiform Humonculustrophy

2012-01-22T12:57:00.000-05:00

Blaisey drew a roundish animal with fifteen legs, a stick figure inside it, and a triangle on its back.

I said, "What kind of animal is it?"

She said, "It's an animal with fifteen legs and an animal human inside its head."

"What kind of animal has fifteen legs and a human inside its head?"

"Uhm. Cow."

"How did the human get inside the cow's head?"

She scrunched her eyebrows together and shook her head. "Dad, how am I supposed to know that?"

Damnit, Dad, I'm an artist, not a bovinologist, it was as if she said. And, therefore, no, I did not bother asking what was up with the triangle on the cow's back. But, in similar fashion to the best works of Salvidor Dali, Blaisey's newest masterpiece does beg us all to consider: What kind of animal do you have inside your head?

Mine is a narwhal.

A Timeless Classic . . .

2012-01-09T16:46:00.001-05:00

Meanwhile, it's true, what you've heard, there are only seven kinds of stories to tell under the sun, and, no, you shouldn't expect to read anything new here. This is nothing more than the simple retelling of a boy and his thirty-five best friends.

Over this past summer, a particularly tumultuous summer for our family if you recall, I had the opportunity to teach developmental writing at a community college in North Carolina. I had never taught this level before, and found it, undoubtedly among my most treasured teaching experiences. Imagine beginning a term with adult students -- many of whom don't know the difference between a verb and a noun -- and working with them through clauses and sentences until they begin submitting to you descriptive, narrative, argumentative, and instructional paragraphs. It really is fantastic!

For their final project, I asked the students to all write an instructional paragraph: the form for an instructional paragraph is simple. I presented them with the simplest instructions to the easiest question I have ever heard: How do you get an elephant into a refrigerator? The question, of course, creates more interesting answers than there are people in the world, ranging from chase it with a mouse to build a refrigerator around the elephant . . . and it goes on like that. These answers, I believe, result from over-thinking the question. The best answer, though, that always wins the trivia contest is the simplest answer. In a sense, it's Ockham's Answer -- from Ockham's Razor, which suggests that the simplest answer available is usually the best. It's an elegant answer, and we all always love it. How do you get an elephant into a refrigerator? You open the door, and you put the elevator into the refrigerator, and you close the door.

The example seems simple enough, right?

So. My students had to describe to me in written form how to do something. My only caveat, I told them, is that you have to describe something I don't already know how to do. I thought this would be a useful criterion, because it would force them to come up with something more complicated than "How to Tie Shoes," I thought it would allow them to discuss an area they feel competent such that they could be the expert rather than me, and I thought it would open up the class to ask me questions about myself, which would mean that for a brief moment I would be the center of attention. Victory would be mine!

All of these things proved to be true. The students started asking me questions. Malik, the first student to raise his hand asked, "Do you know how to swim?"

Malik, I knew from earlier conversations, had come to the United States for the first time to compete as a swimmer in the World Games. Still, I know how to doggie paddle, so I said, "Yes."

He said, "Do you know how to be a world class swimmer?"

I said, "Can you teach me how to be a world class swimmer?"

He took a moment to look me up and down, his brow furrowing, a wince growing on his face, a constant shaking head of disbelief. "No, Mr. Connor. I cannot." Ha! Hadn't thought that far ahead, had you Malik?

Other students chimed in.

"Do you know how to play baseball?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to drive a stick shift?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to play poker?"

"Yes."

"Damn," one of my students said, "he knows how to do everything."

One student, Malik, raised his hand intermittently during this conversation with his own questions. "Do you know," he asked me, "how to raise four children?"

"Yes, Malik, I do."
I was feeling pretty good about myself. I even tried to encourage the students with another thought experiment. "How," I asked them, "do you get a giraffe into a refrigerator?" I expected, once again, the traditional cluster of questions and responses, ranging from the use of welder's tools to small homemade explosives, but the first student to raise her hand said, "You open the refrigerator, take out the elephant, put the giraffe in the refrigerator, and close the door." Hmm. I'm a better teacher than I thought.

Soon, the students started pushing a little harder to come up with ideas that weren't so facile. One student said, "Do you know how to cook?"

I said, "Yes."

"Cook chicken?"

"Yes."

"Cook southern-fried chicken with chitlins and grits?"

"Nope."

Malik said, "Do you know how to mix mortar for the masonry?"

"Yes, Malik, I do."

Other students started falling in line, pushing passed the facile and digging into the more specific, more individual lessons they could teach me, things about life that I might not already know. One student asked if I knew how to pack for vacation . . . on a tight budget . . . to Antigua. No, I don't. I asked her, "How do you know how to pack for vacation on a tight budget to Antigua?"

She said, "I don't, but I'm gonna find out before you do."

Malik said, "Do you still know how to drive a manual stick shift vehicle?"

"Yes, Malik, I do."

"Damn, man," he said, "you have done just about everything." He tilted his head, contemplatively, for a moment and through out a Hail Mary. "Do you know," he asked, "how to catch a, how you say it, hip-po-po-to-mas?"

I said, "Did you say, 'catch a hippopotamus?"

"Yes."

"No, Malik, I do not know how to do that. Do you know how to catch a hippopotamus?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor, I do."

"Malik?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor."

"Would you please write a paragraph describing how to catch a hippopotamus?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor."

After every student in the class came up with something about which to inform me, we set out on our quest to write the paragraphs. Because we had a week to write them, I offered that anybody, who was drafting a paragraph and having particular difficulty, could certainly feel free to change their topic, but they absolutely had to run their idea past me first, because, as we had already determined, I know how to do just about everything. Well, fourteen or fifteen things, anyway.

Over the following week, we talked a little about steps in a process, how to use, "First . . . and then . . . and then . . . finally . . ." and other templates for stepping a reader through a necessary order. Meanwhile, I was looking forward to Southern-fried chicken, a trip to Antigua, learning how to play Whist, and, of course, perhaps, catching a hippopotamus.

I met one student at the door on the way into class, and he said, "Mr. Connor, I had to change my topic for the paragraph."

I said, "Bob, we've talked about this. You've got to run your ideas passed me first."

"I know, but you don't know how to do this."

"I don't know, Bob, I know how to do several things."

"Do you know how to make crack out of cocaine using the baking soda method?"

"I do not know how to do that, Bob."

"Well, you won't be able to say that after you read my paper."

I found the instructive paragraphs to be a success in almost every way for almost every student. Several students chose describing a recipe, and those went over very well, as I was almost always hungry that summer: I appreciated most the fact that each of them started their instructional paragraph with something akin to "First you have to turn on the stove." That chicken ain't, after all, gonna southern fry itself. The card game instructions all started with "First shuffle the deck," which I appreciated and approved of.

Thanks to randomly arranging the paragraphs in the order I wanted to read them, the second to the last paragraph taught me how to make crack out of cocaine using the baking soda method. Neither had I ever wanted to know that, nor had I ever thought I would learn it from a student. Now, I have learned it, and I can't unlearn it. Take that brain.

And, finally, of course, "How to Catch a Hippopotamus: by Malik . . ."

"First," Malik writes, "you have to find a hippopotamus." Well. At this point, he had pretty much wrapped up an A for the class. And, diligent learner that I am, I made immediate plans to get to the Asheboro Zoo down near Charlotte as soon as possible; surely, they would have a hippopotamus or something like it. "Next," writes Malik, "get thirty-five of your closest friends." Shit, at that point, got real. He went on to describe twelve of your friends flanking one side of the river, twelve the other side. The final twelve, and I call them final specifically, end up in homemade rafts paddling around in the soup over top of a herd of water horses, who can run 20 miles an hour, swim even faster, and weigh up to three tons. In retrospect, maybe I should have taken the swimming lessons.

What happens next in the essay involves nets and grappling hooks and short sharp spears. Concise, elegant: the paragraph, truly earned an A. Afterwards, when he met with me for a personal conference, I said, "This is a great paragraph. I just have one question."

He said, "Yes?"

"How do you get a Hippopotamus into a refrigerator?"

"Ah, that is very easy, but it's gonna take more than thirty-five friends."

I left that answer at good enough, and entered the final grades into the grade book. Like I say, it's your classic tale of boy meets hippopotamus. Nothing new. Still, it will give you all something to think about as you're out in the world chasing rhinoceri, packing for Toledo on the cheap, and making whatever you know how to make out of baking soda.

Post Script: as always, Desi says, "Hi."

Unfortunately, she saw the picture of the hippo above, so she's saying hi from a different room.

Famous Tweets in History

2011-12-27T17:05:00.001-05:00

Traci once (earlier today) famously (well?) tweeted, "What was once our living room is now called the ping pong table."

And that is what our life has been like for the past two days: my turn, your turn, my turn, your turn, my turn . . . if only the rules to all of life's sports were so easy.

Or, in an even more perfect world, perhaps love and ownership and intersections could be this way.

But that's all neither here nor there -- what truly matters at this moment is this: looks like playing ping pong for six hours a day two summers in a row when I was fourteen and fifteen with a young Dr. Stick is finally paying off. Daddy is undefeated at the ping pong table.

Ha! In your face, everybody my age who had dates and other kinds of social lives!

I also should note that we have successfully completed two jigsaw puzzles -- one of a gorilla, one of somebody's porch at the beach, and we're well on our way to finishing the one with the horsey, which is Blaisey's favorite animal. "Well," she tells me, "all the animals are my favorite, but I like horsey's the best."

I got nothing else to add to that . . .

Hunting Tips

2011-12-21T16:43:00.000-05:00

Traci said, "Let me have a look at your leg?"

Naomi said, "What's wrong with daddy's leg?"

I said, "I just checked it. It looks fine."

Naomi said, "What's wrong with your leg?"

Traci said, "It looks about the same as it did yesterday."

Naomi said, "Looks the same as what?"

I said, "It doesn't hurt or anything."

Naomi turned to Blaisey and said, "What did daddy do to his leg?"

Blaisey said, "I think he got a bug stuck in it."

This was the day after I came back to Athens -- I'd stayed in PA after Thanksgiving while the rest of the family returned to Ohio. I spent an extra four days out in the woods, during which time I often recalled a quote I'd read from, I think, a professional athlete of some sort, "I have been hunting on several occasions, but no deer were ever aware of it." That registers with me on every level.

Well, I think there's only actually one level.

I spent four days in the woods with my dad, and I only saw one deer, and that is largely the story of my hunting life. It was raining so hard the night before the first day of the season that we had a brief conference about when to wake up. Like many hunters, of course, we would like to have been in the woods unreasonably early but Dad suggested that we might want to sleep in for a bit, because if it's going to rain this hard, it's going to be hard to see even after sunrise. Mom said, "Yeah, with all this rain, it's not going to get light until long after it stops being dark," which is exactly what I had been thinking.

It rained all the first day and all the second day. I've never seen so many mosquitoes during the last week of November. I marked sunrise at about 4:14 both afternoons. Still, it was lovely in the woods and I got in some very long walks.

In the evening, after each hunt, we'd stop back in the clubhouse and make plans for the coming day and the rest of our lives. Though I'd only seen one tick in Pennsylvania in my entire life, some of the hunters claimed that this year they were particularly bad. So each evening, like it or not, we all shared some tick repellent. The stuff came in the little steel cannister that my great uncle used to carry his snakebite medicine in. It tasted remarkably like some of the darker whiskey one might find on the middle shelf of a local spirits shop. If the family legend is true, Great Uncle always had his snakebite medicine on him, and, if times got real tough, he'd even carry a snake.

Wednesday, the temperature dropped, and I found myself sitting in a tree stand, sitting in an enormous snowglobe about thirty feet up in the air, the wind bringing confetti-style flakes at me from all angles. I had brought Leaves of Grass with me, but couldn't take my eyes off the world. It was my first time in the woods in earnest since fall 2002, and I'd forgotten the woods, forgotten how cold an ass can get, forgotten how quiet a place can be, how calm.

Okay, I should mention this: there's these two guys out in the woods, father and son, hunting deer. They walk for a while and cross paths. The father says, "See anything?" Son says, "Found some scat, but it tasted pretty old." They split up again and meet up in a few hours. Father says, "See anything?" Son says, "More scat. It tasted pretty fresh, but I think it was from a doe." Few hours later, the father says, "See anything?" Son says, "Some scat. It tasted real close." The father says, "You know you could just smell the scat." Son says, "Are you kidding me? That stuff smells awful."
It's the first deer-hunting joke I ever made up. Loosely based on a true story. How'd I do?

Here's the true story: Dad said, "You see anything?" I said, "I don't know, does a bear shit where it eats?" He said, "I believe so." I said, "Well, then I saw a bear den."

Late into the third day, the weather broke. The sun came out. I got out of my stand. Dad and I went across the valley to climb a different hillside. Late in the day, the sunlight came horizontal over the hillside we were just on. The hillside lit up like a candlabrum. I started thinking there are no deer in these woods, which is what I believed through most of the hunting seasons of my childhood. Nor did I need to see any deer just then. The gray clatter of tree tops in a bright light breeze would have kept me in the woods for a millenium.

Still, the week before Thanksgiving, we had taken Jaswinder for his first trip through Pennsylvania. He spent two nights at the ancestral Connor household, staying up way too late, chatting with me and Dad. Dad asked him, at one point, "So what do you think of Pennsylvania?" He said, "It's exactly like Chicago, except hilly." (Years before when Dad had asked me what I thought of my first trip to Chicago, I'd said, "It's exactly like February, only it's September.") I'm still not sure what I meant.

We'd been passing through PA on our way to New Jersey to take part in a Barrow Street reading hosted by Derek Pollard in a pub next door to Derek's house -- now that's planning. The reading featured Derek Henderson, Lesley Wheeler, Jaswinder, and this guy. What a beautiful event, space, gathering. I was fantastic. Every body read from one or more of their books, except for one guy whose press had folded months before and had nothing to read but the list of 101 things about himself from his blog.

Jaswinder, or, as the kids call him, Uncle Winder, had never been across PA, and was fascinated by our landscape. Driving along I-80 heading east, he said, "What's on the other side of that hill?"

I said, "I dunno. Another hill."

"Well, I wanna see it."

I told him we'd take a different route home and see what's on the other side of the hill.

On the way back, travelling along I-76 West, he said, "Well, now I wanna see what's on the other side of that hill?"

I said, "We already saw the other side of that hill."

He said, "Yeah, but not today."

I thought about Winder as I stood there in the woods, about how it's never enough, never warm enough, never snowy enough, never rainy or dry enough, because I often do wonder what's on the other side of any given hill, wonder what's on a different radio station, what I would have eaten at a different restaurant or what I would be doing if I had finished that engineering degree. But that day in the woods, I didn't feel the need to know those things. I was happy to be tired from walking up and down steep hills, pushing aside brush and climbing over logs, pursuing little other than exactly what I was doing.

Suddenly, a bear jumped out of a brush pile right in front of me! Awesome. It clambered around up the hillside, making an awful racket. I've been away from the woods for too long . . . should I have said something to it? asked it to keep quiet? maybe cleared my throat, ahem, and showed the bear how to be reverent, silent in the woods? But I just stayed quiet and watched it climb the hillside, some times running, some times swatting tree branches just, I think, for the hell of it.

The fourth day was mostly a half day. Bright again, all day, and we walked the hillsides and didn't see much wildlife. In the evening I drove back to Athens. When I got home, we discovered, to my dismay, I had not taken enough of the tick repellent. A lesson to us all, I suppose. Be sure to drink your tick repellent, or you might end up with a bug stuck in your leg.

Unambitious Us

2011-12-16T09:47:00.000-05:00

Some of you might have got the impression from that last post that we're a competitive family -- but that is simply not the case. We're a very generous, humble, consensus-seeking lot, who wish success for everybody.

Take, for instance, our kayaking trip this summer. Blaisey, at that point, was still having a hard time pronouncing "S" at the beginning of words when that "S" is followed by a consonant. Naomi spent a lot of time encouraging her to say her "S" words.

Naomi would say, "Where do you go every day to learn?"
Blaisey would say, "I go to cool."

"What do you put inside a turkey?"

"I put tuffing."

"What is the second major layer of the earth's atmosphere?"

"I sink it's the tratosphere."

What didn't work, however, was to tell Blaisey what word to say. One could not tell her to "Say 'spicy'." She simply wouldn't do it.

So Blaisey and Naomi were paddling down the mighty Allegheny this summer, working on their "S"s. At a certain point, Naomi tried, "Say 'strawberry'."

Blaisey would not be outwitted. "Why do you want me to say that?"

"So you can work on your words."

"I don't want to work on my words right now."

"Will you just say strawberry for me?"

"Why?"

"Because I think it's cute." The truth comes out.

"I don't care what you think." Painful, painful truth.

"Will you just please say it?"

"Say what?"

"Strawberry?"

"Why?"

Naomi thought through her options for a few paddles. "Because I forgot how to say it."

Blaisey said, "Well, how did you just say it if you forgot how." If you're at all like me, and, again, I imagine most of you are, you can only imagine a young Socrates and Plato strumming down the mighty Elpeus, butting heads with such tautologies.

Meanwhile, Traci got bored. "Oh, for heaven sakes, you two."

Naomi said, "Mom, I can't get her to say 'Strawberry'."

Traci said, "First one to say 'Strawberry' wins."

"Trawberry trawberry trawberry!"

Wait a minute. That's an awful story to illustrate how we're not competitive. Still, it's better than all the other ones I read this morning.

Family Conflict

2011-12-14T12:02:00.000-05:00

Here is a little stretch of seredipity that occured over the weekend -- in fact, the conversation began on our way to lunch where we wrote our Christmas lists and ended on the way home. Driving home, we saw a sign for the library's monthly book sale. So we stopped in and found a discarded winning lottery ticket for a thousand dollars. Here's what happened:

On the cardrive to lunch, Traci and I were arguing about a book we'd both read recently: Sarah Gruen's Water for Elephants.

She said, "I like it."

I said, "Me, too, but not as much."

It was intense, you could have cut the air with a turkey knife. Well, the electric kind, anyway -- the old fashioned ones would have just gummed the mess up. But we didn't have a turkey knife, so we had to just continue the argument with words.

I said, "Why do you like it?"

She said, "Because the writing is good and it is fun to read."

She had me. Dead to rights. The writing is solid, a pleasure to read. The story is engaging, and the narrator has a good eye for detail.

So I said, "So?" Hah, I thought, beat that!

She said, "Also, I thought it was fun to read about the circus."

"But the book isn't about the circus," I said.

She said, "It's entirely about the circus. Look at the cover," so I did (we had our copy in the car), and, in fact, there is a man wearing sequins, carrying a silver-tipped cane, and walking into a striped tent. "Plus," she said, "all the elephant stuff."

True, I told her, there is the elephant act and the horse act and the guy with the silver-tipped cane, but the book is a love story. It's about Jacob and Marlena. It's about the tribulations of marrying someone you don't know and then falling in love with someone you're not married to. But it is not about the circus. "Richard Schmitt's The Aerialist," I said, "now that book's about the circus." In the midst of a description of a show, he writes:

"The act defies the laws of human ability. It is puzzling how they can do these things. A skipping rope segment seemss frivolous and playful, mocks the ten meters between playground and ground, then he trips, falls flat onto the wire. it is a moment that stops band and breath. he catches the wire with both hands. Swings under. The rope falls and the shocking thing, even if you suspect the trip was contrived, the thing that makes you jump in your seat, is the thud the rope makes hitting the ground. You're pretty sure he did not mean to drop that rope, and you feel it hit from across the ring, and feel the hairs rise on the back of your neck. If a rope hits with such force . . ." (The Aerialist 212)

We did not have a copy of that book with us, she just had to take my word for it. "Water for Elephants doesn't even mention the tightrope until the final thirty pages of the book."

"Still," she said, "it's a very good love story with lots of suspense."

"Yes, very suspenseful, but the suspense is all based on a lie." This isn't any kind of spoiler, because it's the opening scene:

"My eyes swept the tent, desperate to find Marlena. . . . I opened my eyes again and scanned the menagerie, frantic to find her. How hard can it be to find a girl and an elephant, for Christ's sake? // When I caught sight of her pink sequins, I nearly cried out in relief--maybe I did. I don't remember. . . . // She reached for something. A giraffe passed between us--its long neck bobbing gracefully even in panic--and when it was gone I saw that she'd picked up an iron stake. She held it loosely, resting its end on the hard dirt. She looked at me again, bemused. Then her gaze shifted to the back of his bare head. . . . // She lifted the stake high in the air and brought it down, splitting his head like a watermelon." (Water for Elephants 3-4)

(My version is abridged, but you can read the prologue at Amazon: here.

If you haven't read it, this might be a spoiler: despite the fact that the prologue has Marlena killing somebody, despite the fact that I spent the next three hundred pages trying to figure how Marlena was going to turn into a killer, Marlena doesn't kill anybody. The book begins en media res -- it begins with the climactic scene of the book and takes us back and ahead in time very skillfully and pleasurably. It really is a great read, but, when we get back to the climactic scene, it is not Marlena who kills the guy. "The narrator begins the book with a lie," I tell Traci, "and I cannot forgive him for that. I cannot accept the fact that this narrator changes his story just to build suspense. I will never be okay with this."

Traci said, "I'm alright with it." Yes, she had a good point.

I said, "I guess I am, too. It's a good book. I like it. I just wish we had a copy of The Aerialist."

We left it at that and we ate our very delicious lunch, while writing our Christmas lists, and -- and I have to stress this -- we did not get kicked out of the restaurant, so, ha!, Sam's wish comes true early. On the way home, we saw the sign for the monthly library book sale and decided to stop in. Blaisey alone bought 18 books: as she piled them in front of me, I said, "You want all those books?"

She said, "They will help me learn to read. You do want me to learn to read, don't you?"

Naomi found a dozen and said, "Guess we'll have to build a bookshelf. I've never read twelve new books all at once."

I said, "Why don't you just donate them back to the library when you're done?"

She said, "What am I gonna do until next weekend?"
We're getting the lumber today.

Traci and I got another handful, mostly novels, including the metaphorical lottery ticket for a thousand bucks: we found a beautiful copy of Richard Schmitt's The Aerialist! Serendipity smiled on us again.

And we're all living happily ever after.

Clothes Make the Man Or Whatever

2011-12-13T19:37:00.000-05:00

While sorting laundry, Sam and Zac couldn't figure whose jeans they held. Sam said, "Well, they must be Naomi's. They're not long enough to be a full-grown person."

Zac responded, "Are you kidding? Look at the waist, you could fit five Naomi's in there."

"Ah," they concluded simultaneously, "must be Dad's."

What are you boys trying to say, anyway?

Who Art Thou?

2011-12-12T14:14:00.000-05:00

Did I mention I went to Detroit for the first time earlier this year? I went there to hang out with four of my best friends, and I got to give a reading in the meantime (I read "Beachtrip 2008 (a Rerun)" from earlier in this blog.

While we were there, we took a trip to see The Heidelberg Project. Check it out online if you haven't yet. Part of it looks like a fantasyland of things you lost in childhood. Part of it looks like a green horse's nightmare. All of it is fascinating.

We got a chance to meet the creator of the installation. Tyree's his name. We said, "Nice to meet you, Tyree."

Tyree said, "What is art?"

We said, "Well, it could be any number of things."

Tyree said, "Oh? What is art?"

As the only non-Ph.D. in the group, I stood around looking especially stupid, even stupider than my normal stupid. You could almost say it was a moment of highly advanced stupidity. I said nothing, and never once for an instant backtracked, qualified, or wavered. And nobody argued with me. Nor were they qualified to.

My friends said all kinds of passionate, brilliant, compelling, mind-blowing things. They quoted Aristotle and Marcel Duschamp and Woody Allen. They wrote treatises and manifestos on napkins and the backs of their hands. I didn't understand a word of it. Not a single word.

On the other hand, it did remind me of the time we overheard Sam and his buddy (both ten at the time) in a heated debate. In reference to a Shakespeare quote, Sam said, "Well of course we know that 'thou' means 'you,' but we still don't know what 'art' is."

And, of course, that recalls the words of the great 21st century philosopher William Clinton who famously posed: "Well, that depends what your definition of 'is' is." A question so astute he didn't even bother putting it in the form of a question. Nor did he add a question mark.

So, anyway, that's what has been on my mind throughout most of lunch this morning: what is art, who art you, and what is is? The three great questions of this life.

At this point, obviously, my kids would have great answers to this, but they still haven't figured out the question to my Jeopardy answer: "He sang 'Mrs. Robinson' with Paul."

Answers to these and / or other questions coming soon.

Our Family Christmas Lists

2011-12-10T16:32:00.001-05:00

At family lunch today, we decided to make Christmas lists. Mine was “Jigsaw puzzles, books, and Traci kisses.” Elegant, precise.

Blaisey, who knows most of her alphabet, but is just now learning to spell, asked, “How do you spell, ‘I want kisses from mommy and hugs from mommy?’”

I asked Sam what’s on his list.

He said, “You wouldn’t understand. It’s computer stuff.”

I said, “Try me.”

He started explaining what he needs in order to build a super-gaming computer. He described the necessary parts with his hands and with very big words, trying to convince me that he was talking about real things. I’m not so sure.

I said, “Can you put that in the form of a list.”

He said, “I just did.”

I said, “Well, I didn’t understand any of it. I’ll probably just get you puzzles and books.”

He said, “That would be nice, too.”

Blaisey said, “How do you spell, ‘I want books and puzzles for Christmas?’”

Zac wants a crash pad and shoes for rock climbing.

Traci said, “You might not love the shoes I pick out for you.”

Zac said, “I’ll email you the website with the information so you can just click and pay.”

Traci said, “Takes some of the surprise out of Christmas, doesn’t it?”

Zac said, “Does this mean I’m probably getting books and puzzles?”

Well, if we told him the answer, it would take all of the surprise out of Christmas.

Blaisey said, “How do you spell, ‘I want a dog that walks and talks and eats and is a toy?’”

Naomi said, “I have everything I need. I don’t need anything for Christmas.”

Traci said, “You don’t have to need anything to get Christmas presents.”
Naomi said, “Okay, how about watching a family movie together?”

Zac said, “You’re the reason the economy’s failing, you know.”

Naomi said, “I want the economy for Christmas.”

Naomi was not playing by the rules of list making, so I suggested she’ll probably get poo for Christmas.

Blaisey said, “How do you spell, ‘Poo. Lots and lots of poo.”

Sam said, “I changed my mind. This Christmas, I’d like a family that won’t get me kicked out of Applebees.”

Blaisey said, “How do you spell, ‘Sam doesn’t get a present this year?’” Blaisey had to lean past Sam to tell me, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Traci’s list was short as well. It said, “Kindle Fire.”

I said, “What are you going to do with that?”

She said, “Read books and build puzzles.”

Phew! It’s good to have the Christmas lists taken care of finally. Now that you all know what our family wants, it should really simplify your shopping season. Now get your butts out there and save the economy. Please no Thomas Kincaide.

Couched Update

2011-12-08T13:45:00.000-05:00

Blaisey's Hierarchy of Needs

After submitting her final grades for a very trying quarter, Traci spent a day on the couch reading a best seller. Feeling a great deal of guilt for taking a vacation day, she turned to Blaisey for permission to continue. A four-year old is always a great source of vindication, by the way. "Do you think it's a problem," Traci asked Blaisey, "that all I've done today is sit on this couch?"

Blaisey, tilted her head to the side contemplatively and sagely responded, "Uhm. Do you have to eat or poop?"

Traci considered the question and said, "No."

Blaisey said, "Then you're okay."

So, alright, I admit it: this is a pretty good life.

101 Things about This Guy (Complete, Digitally Remastered, and with Bonus Material)

2011-07-22T17:51:00.000-04:00

101 things about me:

Inspired by fellow bloggers and poets and facebook and et cetera, and desiring to get on board with what seems to be the cultural phenomenon of making lists, I’m writing this list.

1: Kevin Costner’s character on Water World, the one with the webbed feet and the gills, sometimes I wish I could be him.

2: I don’t really wish I could be him, I just wish I could swim really fast.

3: Not that I even like swimming a ton, also I’m afraid of water when I can’t see the bottom of it, maybe it’s the post-apocalypse that I’m really excited about.

4: Almost certainly, because if I couldn’t be that Kevin Costner character, I’d probably want to be Mad Max.

5: Also, I’m afraid of seaweed.

6: Not the kind in little aquariums or around sushi, but when I’m wading in water and I have to walk through it (yes, that counts as not being able to see the bottom) – oh, hell, I hate that.

7: I call the grass in rivers and ponds seaweed – it just seems more reasonable than making the distinctions pondweed, riverweed, seaweed, creekweed, runweed, streamweed, lakeweed, puddleweed – if it’s underwater and it’s something like grass and I hate it, it’s seaweed.

At the same time, I don’t think it’s a recent cultural phenomenon – if Aristotle were alive today, he’d be a blogger, right? Cataloguing, categorizing, making numbered lists. And Linnaeus for sure. Can any one of us truly imagine a 21st century Rabbelais who doesn’t have a half dozen blogs cross referencing gargantuan lists ranging from best breads baked on a particular city block to types of urinations I’ve had?

No. None of us can imagine that.

8. After eleven years as an English major, after SATs and GREs and a comprehensive exam, after two degrees and nearly a Ph.D., after teaching college writing for seven years, after getting a novel and many stories and essays published, after seven years of marriage to a Ph.D. and author, I still don’t know the difference between objective and subjective truth.

9. I know the distinction is supposed to be easy and obvious, but I’ve just never committed it to memory.

10. For a while it was like a point of pride for me.

11. Sometimes, I act like I’m too old to understand the difference.

12. Other times, I pretend that I know so much about the myriad and complicated intracacies of truth that objective and subjective means very much the same thing in the long run.

13. Sometimes, I blame the postmodern condition: “Well, you know, can any of us really know anything?”

14. Other times, I blame our holy texts like The Constitution or Martha Stewart’s Homekeeping Handbook: The Essential Guide to Caring for Everything in Your Home, because, you know, if those texts aren’t going to make the distinction clear, why should it matter to me?

15. I miss cassette tapes.

16. While all five of the toes on my right foot –

– are among my top hundred favorite body parts of mine of all time, the two closest to the big one are my favorite.

17. And, No!, not just because they’re partially webbed.

18. They have many great features such as looking slightly less like peanuts than the other two little ones while not being so much a loner like biggie over there.

19. Okay, the truth is: it is mostly because they’re a little bit conjoined.

20. But they’re also a little bit rock and roll.

21. In fact, when I’m in a room with a bunch of people more successful than myself (which is pretty much all day unless I’m in the bathroom, and even that isn’t as much of a guarantee as I might hope), sometimes I’m tempted to counter what those folks are saying, or just start an argument by saying, “Yes, perhaps, but I am, you know, semipalmated.”

22. I don’t really have a hundred favorite body parts: only six or seven that come to mind.

23. In fact, it might take me all day to list a hundred body part, even if I count the ones I'm not as fond of:

24. If pressed, I don’t know if I could come up with fifty without the internet’s help.

25. I’m secretly writing a sci-fi fantasy novel that I talk about all the time but hardly ever think about.

26. I act like I don’t like the ocean, but I could sit beside it for a thousand years, I’ll bet, and not get bored.

27. I still think about specific moments from my high school sports days.

28. There’s a gray squirrel in the backyard (nothing exceptional, very standard, white belly, expected tail), and I wish I lived the kind of life where I could sit and watch it for hours without feeling guilty about how I spend my time – really it’s beautiful.

29. There’s also a part of me that wants to shoot the squirrel and eat it.

30. I’m going for a run.

31. Maybe I would feel differently if I were somebody’s boss, but I don’t place much value in the ability to mulitask.

32. I’m finding it incredibly difficult to come up with 101 things about me.

33. Ani Difranco in her song “Grey” says, “I smoke and I drink, and every time I blink, I live a tiny dream, / but as bad as I am, I’m proud of the fact that I’m worse than I seem” – I like that sentiment.

34. I never thought I wanted to have kids until I had three.

35. If I were immortal, the first thing I would do would be to buy a whole bunch of shovels and fill in the Grand Canyon.

36. In part because I can’t think of anything else so terrifying that I’d like to be known for.

37. But, also, because I would love to spend the next 10, 20 millennia watching it carve itself back out.

38. Fact is, I don’t think immortality would get boring to me, despite contemporary folklore.

39. I wonder how many shovels it would take.

40. Most days, I prefer rain.

41. If I could change one thing about myself, I would be unforgivably wealthy.

42. I don’t have any objections to people who curse while they pray.

43. Though my allergies frustrate me in the way they control much of my life, I genuinely enjoy sneezing.

44. If I were three of me, I could be a really good writer; if I were six of me, I could do a good job keeping up with the house and yard; if I were a hundred and forty-four of me, I could be a good enough parent.

45. I’m still thinking about eating that squirrel.

46. I wish I were better at taking pictures – not necessarily more skillfully, just more frequently.

47. If I were immortal, the second thing I would do would be to commit to memory the difference between objective and subjective truth – seems like that’s the type of thing an immortal ought to know.

48. For years, I’ve had this whole obsession with space and time: I mean, imagine I can run ten miles an hour; I should be able to, with little effort, run 10.0000001 miles per hour; if that’s the case, I should be able to run 10.0000002, 10.0000003, 10.00000004, etc. with equally little effort, such that I would soon be running at about 120 mph (which is my ideal speed) – anyway, that’s what my sci-fi / fantasy novel is all about.

49. If I could be one other animal in the world, it would not be a squirrel.

50. I’ve nothing against them personally – they’re cute and all – but they’re not quite as terrifying as a rat, not quite as big as a woodchuck.

51. Maybe if they moved in herds, I would want to be a squirrel.

52. I wouldn’t want to be a dog either – imagine not even having language and having to live with something as moody as a human.

53. I don’t understand line breaks in poetry.

54. I’m not real sure why I end certain paragraphs where I do either, though.

55. Sometimes I wonder who in the hell gave me all these degrees in English.

56. Nobody in my secret sci-fi / fantasy novel has an English degree, and they’re all smarter than I.

57. My spouse just asked me if I was humming the theme to Rocky: no, I wasn’t.

58. I am now.

59. If I could be anybody else in the world, it would be me during my senior year of basketball, during the playoff game we lost to Northeast High School: fourth quarter, tie game, I stole the ball and made a break – this time I wouldn’t pass the ball; you couldn’t pay me a thousand dollars to pass the ball this time.

60. It’s kind of embarrassing to me that if I could change one thing about my past, it would be that I would have taken a single jumpshot sixteen years and two months ago.

61. I was never a fan of Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” until I got old enough to wish I was young again.

62. I haven’t seen that squirrel since yesterday morning.

63. I’m not who I thought I would be.

64. I was certain I would be much taller by now.

65. I would have guessed I’d be a stronger swimmer.

66. I’m totally over that squirrel.

65. My favorite colors are green and gray, not necessarily for the way they look together – though I do think of that gray I-80 cutting through the green green heart of Pennsylvania in a thick summer – but they just sound so nice, much better than black and blue, which, of course, are my second favorite colors.

66. Robert Frost famously wrote, “Something there is that does not love a wall” – me? I like a good wall.

67. If you were to ask me what I was humming any day between now and last July, it would be this song.

68. I hardly think about that squirrel at all any more; I mean, if you were to ask me, “What’s up with that squirrel?”, I would be all “What squirrel?”

69. Any time I think about it, I find it hard to believe that anything can hold all these molecules together.

70. I used to tell people that before I met them I could throw an 80 lb. bag of mortar the length of a football field – that wasn’t true.

71. It still isn’t.

72. If I were immortal, the third thing I’d do would be make a much longer list of things about me – I would call it “505 Things about This Guy.”

73. The other thing I don’t understand about language is why I use “were” in #72 instead of “was” – something tells me I’m using the language correctly, but I don’t know how.

74. I hate the sound my tongue makes when I bite it.

75. When I reach the point where I can spend an hour a day in the garden without feeling guilty, I think I will have achieved self-actualization.

76. One of my favorite words that I have never used in a sentence is "craw" – what an awful and beautiful sounding word.

77. When I grow up, I want to be calmer.

78. I have never outgrown my childhood objection to neckties.

79. I still genuinely enjoy Cabin Boy.

80. I don’t typically have any objections to eating with ones hands.

81. I’m not really as into lists as I was three days ago.

82. Okay. Now there are three squirrels. Don’t they know who I am? What I could do to them? How good they would taste in a stew? Still they’re pretty cute when they hop over dandelions.

83. Sometimes I have a hard time following through with

84. I've put it off for twenty-four years, but here I am this evening watching Robocop. Detroit looks just like I left it.

85. Those squirels are back, only this time they've come in the form of robins, red-breasted ones at that. They're busily hopping around the yard, picking up bugs and worms and eating those things. Traci recently said, "They must have excellent eyes or some other sense that allows them to find so many small critters crawling through the grass." Sam countered, "I don't know. It seems like if I spent twelve hours a day hopping around the back yard, I could catch a worm or two, too."

86. Both good points, I'll give it some more careful thought. Some other day.

87. Saturday night was the first night I've been alone in a house in almost eight years.

88. I didn't like it.

89. I miss my spouse and my kids. It is time for them to come home now.

90. Now there are three bunnies within bowling distance. Though one more would fill the crock pot right nice, I'm sitting here, admiring their majesty or whatever.

91. Dennis Rodman's number, when 10 was taken. Oh Worm, where are you now?

92. On second thought, don't answer that. There's like a 90-10 chance I don't want to know. Right?

93. I watched For the Bible Tells Me So last night on Netflix, and wept for about the last half hour of it. I'm so sick of having rights that my gay friends and enemies can't have, I could cry. (Which explains those above mentioned thirty minutes.)

94. At this stage in my life, I have to admit, I'm shocked that it's taking me months to come up with 101 noteworthy things about me. I bet when I was twenty-two, I could have cranked out an awesome list in an afternoon.

95. I blame my kids -- having four children that I find infinitely more interesting than myself, I have very little to post.

96. I guess I do tend to try to live vicariously through my little turtles – ever seen a baby, come on, give one a shell, and it might swim to Australia – but that doesn’t stop me from this overwhelming desire to encourage them to do what I would have done, what I would have wanted to do, what I wanted to try but was never talented enough.

For instance. Noon, today, I’d been thinking about delivering a speech to Sam: “Sam, you’re not going to be 15 forever.” But I decided that was too much, and that I would let him figure it out on his own.

Still, who can blame me? I remember fifteen as the first time I got up on the rim. First fingertips, eventually palm, I remember the first time I dunked something – after my cousin’s basketball game, the first of three losses her team had during her four years of varsity play (what a team!) – a nickel. Quickly followed by a lollipop. Oh. I was something. And here’s Sam, six-foot-two, a hundred and seventy pounds . . . oh, what I would have done.

I’d already been to the coffee shop this morning to work on a novel I’m writing – it’s a historical novel, a Western (in a sense) though it’s set in the East; I’m 72,000 words into it, and I went back again this morning to chapter 10, which is the most important chapter in the book and the most boring; it’s the point at which the plot becomes less like 3:10 to Yuma and more like Wallstreet.

Okay, in response to the first part of your question: No, I don’t find it problematic that I can only talk about this book in terms of movies. As for the second part: Yes, I find it as boring to write about writing the book as you find it reading about writing the book.

But that’s kind of my point. I rethunk my speech to Sam – “You’re not going to be 15 forever,” by which what I would have meant was, “Go for a run, do some push ups, get off the computer for half an hour” – but I couldn’t think of anything quantifiably different about what he was doing and what I was doing, would have done, would have wanted to do, wanted to try but was never tall enough.

Nor did I forget to remember that famous conversation between Mom and Dad many years ago . . .

Mom: Don't you worry about him?
Dad: Who?
Mom: Jackson.
Dad: Why?

Mom: All he does is play Atari and eat Twinkies.

Dad: Yeah, but . . . he's really good at it.

So I let it go. And focused on myself instead: I did a hundred burpees (squat, kickback, push up, return to squat, jump, chin up) and ran three miles. After all, as my dad pointed out two weeks ago, I’m not going to be thirty-four forever. (His actual words, I believe, were: “You’re officially older than Jesus. Way to go.”)

97. I’ve been writing outside today, and it just now struck me: it smells like the ocean in our back yard – anybody else think it’s time for me to turn off the sprinklers?

98. In other vicarious news: traci left Utah this morning for her first cross country trip without me in eight years. I love that open road. traci, our dear friend Kristen, and Zac are driving back here this week. Zac had been in Utah for three weeks, visiting family who gave him a brand new 1987 Jeep Wrangler – a trip that he’s been planning for over six months. traci, on the other hand, flew out last Thursday on a buddy pass Kristen’s friend had given her, such that she (traci) could drive back here with her (Kristen), and we could all hang out for a while – they decided to do this last week. The fact that they’re caravanning across Wyoming right now is dumb luck.

Given that this scenario is not terribly out of the ordinary for our family, you would think that I would be good at plots, and could just make something wonderful happen in the above mentioned Chapter 10: “Tendrils.” Not the case.

Though I deeply envy them their drive, I have, through the beauty of text messaging (yes, I said it, beauty. of. text. messaging), traci has been updating me when she reaches some of our favorite landmarks: “Park City llama onto I-80,” “Eating a sandwich in the town with no name but lots of fireworks, “Big sky Wyoming,” “that dark red highway across Wyoming,” “the town named after Richard Ford’s stunning short story collection,” “Zac peeing on an abandoned gas station in the wide open plains” (this most recent one is not necessarily a landmark for us, but, again, not so terribly unfamiliar).

And in return, I’ve been occasionally suggesting appropriate music for the drive. At the Utah, Wyoming border (this will be no surprise), I suggested “The BalladPoncho and Lefty” to get them started. Perhaps the perfect road trip song – why not get it into our heads early. “Now you wear your skin like iron, your breath’s as hard as kerosene.” My goodness, Willie. As a writer, I could stand to learn how to create a complete epic narrative in four stanzas. Well played.

For the midway point of Wyoming, I had to go with “Off He Goes.” This one’s personal. The first time I ever drove through Wyoming – in fact the only time I’ve ever crossed it from top to bottom – I was listening to this song. Now, the fact that it is basically a newer version of “Poncho and Lefty” notwithstanding, the song will always remind me of that first cross-country drive with Angelo – only five crackers for lunch, but we would split a can of pork-and-beans for dinner, bathing in rest-stop sinks, our bed was simply every stitch of clothing we owned and a sleeping bag a piece. Freedom might be just another word, as we all know by now, for nothing left to lose, but I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.

I know it’s obvious, but if I were on a desert island, and that desert island was called Nebraska, and my smart phone could only pick up one song for the entire 660 miles: Big Country’s “Through a Big Country.” And if you’re riding along with me, try not to feel at first a little embarrassed for me, then kind of frustrated, and eventually pissed off, as I alternately scream the lyrics and weep for the eleven hours it takes to get to Iowa.

Lag Wagon’s “May 16” and Millencolin’s “No Cigar” for the bulk of Iowa. You’re gonna be tired at this point: pep up. In fact, if you can find it, easily, just play the entire sound track to Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater II. I can’t make a connection to road tripping here, but it’s a nice soundtrack to jam to while crossing this little ocean of cornfields.

But what about Illinois and Indiana?

We’re gonna need a bigger soundtrack.

How about this, instead: start with This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think about and just make your way through the Modest Mouse Oeuvre, including, though not every song snaps, No One’s First, and You’re Next. Focusing specifically on “Never Ending Math Equation,” “King Rat,” “Dashboard,” Good News for People Who Love Bad News, and “Styrofoam Boots.”

Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, and North Carolina – well, that’s hardly even a trip, now is it? Still, I would just find whichever Ani Difranco album is my favorite today, and play that on repeat until you get home.

Meanwhile, thanks to the glorious inventions of thumbs and the qwerty keyboard, I’ve learned that our caravan will most likely spend the night in Wyoming tonight. Short first leg, but I think we can all agree this restful drive should lead to a long haul tomorrow – Indiana, maybe. Maybe Ohio. I’m hoping they’ll get home by Thursday, though, much as I miss them, I sure do love a cross country drive.

99. I’ve gotta admit, I’m looking forward to this coming to an end.

100. If I were immortal, and I’m pretty sure I’m not, I would jump off of very tall objects with the idea in mind that I might be able to catch a bird cruising by beneath me – what a rush.

101. Finally, it turns out, I’m an awful blogger. I can’t keep a pace for shit.

102. Bonus: Ijust want to mention how proud I am that I made it through a hundred things about myself without saying fart or shit. Hazah!

103. Bonus: I just now realized there are two # 65s and two # 66s, but I am too lazy to go back and adjust everything that follows accordingly. So lazy, in fact, that I'm not even going to cut and paste them down here to become 104 and 105. That said, I'm leaving it up to the theorists to decide whether or not this can be called a "101 Things about Something" list, given the way I have unintentionally put the pork to the above numbers. To wit, I must say: in your face, alphanumeric system.

downsizing, evaluating, other stuff

2011-04-19T14:18:00.002-04:00

As Some of You May or May Not Know,

traci and I recently quit our jobs. We’re trying to sell our house. We’d like to, in turn, buy some chickens and plant a garden near those chickens. Preferably some place in Southeastern Ohio. We’re downsizing, and taking a step away from academia for a while. We’re going to make more time for our art and our kids and our health, and put less energy into worrying over where our students want to put semicolons or what our colleagues think of our publication records. It’s all, I know, a noble pursuit. It simply overwhelmed us a touch. We found ourselves looking forward to retirement, rather than enjoying our lives.

So I know that raises a lot of questions: what’s your house look like?, is it close to a park, how much are you asking?, chickens?, I thought you already had chickens?, and will you find true happiness once you’ve left teaching?

In response to the first three questions: check out our realtor’s website here. Or if you just want to see our crib, which has not yet been featured on any reality shows. I know. I’m constantly shocked as well. In response what appears to be the fourth question, “chickens?” Well, that’s not really even a question. Or a sentence for that matter. But I’ll do my best to respond: a chicken is a medium-sized flightless . . . you know what just click here to find out. In response to question four, which is also, I see now, not a question, I must say, you can think it all you want, that’s not going to get us farm fresh eggs. And, finally, we’re not even sure what happiness is, but one thing that I’m only now beginning to understand is that happiness, like writing, is a process, not a product, and it is in the enacting of happiness that happiness exists.

I’ve been meditating, which is like weightlifting for one’s soul. That’s how come that last line there sounds so smart. Bet your ass.

Meditating has its limits.

Meanwhile, the above is all part and/or parcel of the reason I’ve written so little lately – I’ve found it hard to celebrate a life in limbo. But I also want you all to know what we’re up to, where we are going, where we have been, what’s on the horizon, what’s off to the left there, just around the bend, up ahead, yet to be, off to the north, up, and going on.

So keep the questions coming, or else I’m gonna have to keep making them up. Until then. Y’ens take care.

Hair Cut for the 21st Century

2011-04-17T20:06:00.001-04:00

Though my head would almost certainly not fit into a red or blue plastic cup, I found myself looking very much like a beer pong ball recently. Well, to be honest, I still call them ping pong balls, but according to most of my students and that tupperware sitting next to the cash register at the BP station, they are now beer pong balls. And, rather than being swatted back and forth across a green plywood table in the garage, apparently the object of the game these days is to cover the ball in lint and dunk it in someone else’s drink. The more drinks you dunk it in, the better your chances for “staying on” to play the next folks.

All sort of beside the point, really. Recently, you all have been asking, “What, then, is the point, Jackson?” Which I’ve taken to mean, “Why are we here?” Or “Is there a meaning to all this?” Or “Tell me about the sea, Jackson?” The last of which, I feel I should mention, is not a question, despite the question mark. Maybe you already knew that. So, what is the point?

The point is: I got a haircut. Let me rephrase: I shaved my head. Not to the scalp exactly, but pretty short. In fact, this is what I used to look like:

This is what I look like now:

Well, a little what I look like.

The boys came home from rock climbing shortly after my “haircut.” Zac said, “Whoa, when your hair’s that short, your beard looks enormous.” Sam said, “You have a beard?”

I bumped into Naomi a short time later, and she asked, “Did you lose a bet or something?”

I asked Blaisey for her honest opinion (an honest question posed in the form of a statement (an honest question with a certain indication that a juice box might accompany the correct answer)): “My haircut looks good, right?”

Blaisey said, “Yes. Good. A little weird . . . but you look really cute in that shirt.”

She got the juice box. But, let’s face it, who wouldn’t look cute in this shirt! The one on the left.

Anyway, I've been busy for a spell, you know, whether other things, but I'm back now, or at least that's what I'd have you believe.

Also, in the off chance that it's not obvious, Desi says hi.

More Recent Evidence Reinforces My Belief That I Married up

2010-12-07T13:46:00.001-05:00

Unfortunately, as you all know, I’ve slipped just a touch this past week in my standing as Most Successful Member of the Family. To wit: after many months of super-duper readings at great venues to vicious applause and unyielding lauding, traci’s book Recipes for Endangered Species has been panned. She was thrilled. “Look at this,” she said, “it says here, ‘I felt as if I had left a loving homestead filled with ancestral love and spiritual light to go get a job as a stripper in the city, had sold my child for drugs, and dumped my beloved cat in the trash, and walked away as it mewed. I wanted to go to sleep, but was afraid of my dreams.’”

Absolutely thrilled. She said, “This reviewer hated my book, but this review won’t make people not want to read it.”

I on the other hand felt my married-up status slipping along with traci’s grammar: “ . . . won’t make people not . . .” – so you wonder: what kind of rhetorical Wal-Marts does traci construct while you’re all away? – “won’t make people not”: that kind.

(Should that be while “y’all’re away?”)

With my PhD. a mere language requirement away, and people talking smack about traci’s writing, I thought for sure I would have to start picking my nose while teaching or throwing snowballs at Pat and Olga’s kids and blaming it on the sky. And, hell, it’s not even likely to snow here again until we leave for Utah in December. I was at an impass.

Suddenly, on Tuesday Nickole Brown from White Pine Press called traci. Turns out traci’s manuscript of prose poems Shell-Shaped Pieces of Bone was a finalist for the Marie Alexander Poetry Series. A really awesome series from a really awesome press.

While we found out this past weekend that she did not win, I was consoled by the fact that I’m back, baby. There’s no way I’m going to accomplish as much as traci any time soon, so who is the most excited in the world that I married traci? Clearly, it's this guy:

But, in all fairness, Blaisey's a close second.

Post Script: National Novel Writing Month – good attempts all around at our house. The Epic Asskicking Adventures of Princess Badass topped 8,000 words during the first week, then quickly fell from favor. Instead, I started working on my Western (The Wickedest City) again, and that went well. traci clacked steadily away at her novel – she got closer to maybe 10-12,000 words. While still shy of the 50,000 words the National Novel Writing Month experts look for, she has laid some ground work for a novel that I’m sure you all will be interested in. I’m burying Princess Badass for the time being, but traci’s going to stick with hers. I hear December is National Plutonium Enrichment Month – which means the ancient Connor family mantra (Hold My Beer I Wanna Try Something) has never been more fitting.

A Second Honeymoon and Other Travel Advice

2010-11-24T14:48:00.000-05:00

traci and I have that old on-going marital competition. For the longest time, we kept secret tabs on who was more successful in life. One day, we just decided to make a list. My argument was that I had attained more in life than she had. And hers was, "Nah nah, nahnah, poopoo." At any rate, here's a sample of the list.

* traci had a full scholarship to play Division One basketball – I was a Division Three cheerleader for gym credit
* traci has a PhD. – I have an MFA (from the same university)
* she’s 6’1” – I’m 5’11” (with my boots on)
* she has a book published – I have a few short stories and an essay
* she is a tenure track professor – I teach part time

As you can imagine, the list went on for the first half of a seventy-page college ruled spiral notebook before traci, incredulously, asked me, “Well, then, how exactly are you more successful than I?”

“It’s simple,” I said. “I married up.”

traci’s choice of spouse aside, she really is pretty amazing. Recently, writer and madhatter Carol Novak asked traci to read along with herself, David Smith, and Carter Monroe at the MadHat's Poetry, Prose & Anything Goes. traci, of course, was honored, and it gave more credence to my argument that my spouse is superior to my spouse’s spouse in all ways. Chalk one up for this guy. I don’t see traci becoming as successful as me any time soon, unless she stops doing really awesome things and I start robbing banks. That might equalize the playing field.

Anyway, it was an awesome reading, and if you’ve never met the above four awesome writers, then I’m better than you. Or luckier, at least, and if you like reading, look into each of their works – some of the best stuff I’ve been exposed to for quite a while, and someday when I complete my PhD., I’ll have the ethos to explain why they’re awesome. For now, it’s enough to say, they are kind and strong people who celebrate art and good conversations.

Meanwhile, traci and I took advantage of the journey to have a romantic day alone. We started off the day by taking a circuitous route up around the panhandle to have a look at some used cast iron bathtubs in the hopes of finding a four footer to fit our guest bathroom. The place we drove to is close to the Tennessee border, and the guy who runs it sits there on the porch, with a fence made of bathtubs and a yard made of bathtubs and a garden made of bathtubs, and this guy can tell you the personal history of every one of the bathtubs and others like them.

We asked him how he kept track of the prices of all the tubs. He said, “Five footers are two hundred. Four foot and a halfers are three hundred. And I don’t have any four footers, but, if I did, it would run you about seven hundred.” At this point, I could only be thankful we didn’t need a three footer – we’d have to sell the bathroom to buy the tub.

So we continued on our way – tubless – to Ashville, following the directions we’d been given by the internet. It has always amazed myself and my family that when I moved to Utah to perform my MFA program, I got on Route 8 which runs past my house, drove to Barkeyville, turned left on I-80 and drove straight until I found a hotel in Salt Lake City. In order to get from Greensboro NC to Ashville NC, we had to print out three pages of directions, leading us through Tennessee along seventeen different routes and interstates, and dubious county roads. At one point, traci looked up from the map and said, “Are we in somebody’s backyard?”

Now, there’s only one place in the world, I’ve heard, where you can start at Point A, walk a mile south, walk a mile east, walk a mile north, and end up back at Point A. It’s a sort of a riddle slash logic problem. Don’t finish this sentence if you don’t want to know the answer is the North Pole. At any rate, there’s only one place in the world, I’ve heard, where you can make such a triangular journey, following straight lines.

I’m here today to say that I think we’ve found a second such place. One of the directions, and this is verbatim, asked us to “Turn left to continue straight North on East 74 West.” I’m not going to address the fact that the directions asked us to turn left to go straight. Nor am I concerned with the idea of heading West on 74 East. What concerns me here is that we were already heading west, so the left turn should have effectively had us driving south while heading North on East 74 West.

So while I recognize the complicated magnetic issues the North Pole offers the world, I am certain there isn’t a pole on this planet that can contend with Tennessee for confusing travelers. At one point, in fact, we came to an intersection of East 74 West and North 81 West and couldn’t decipher the map. So we drove straight for a mile, came back to the intersection, tried the two other roads – each time coming back to the intersection – and simply decided to backtrack on East 74 East for a few miles. Now, it turns out that was exactly what the directions wanted us to do, but what’s more interesting is that all three of the other roads would have taken us 22 miles to Boone, NC. I know all roads once lead to Rome, and that’s a nice metaphor, but the only thing I can figure is that whoever designed the roads in Tennessee had a strong practical grasp of mobius strips.

Still, though we didn’t end up with a tub, it was a beautiful drive. The Black Mountain College Museum was a great space for a wonderful reading. After which we ate the best Punjabi food I’ve eaten since Jaswinder let me sleep on his floor for three months. We ended the romantic evening by driving halfway back to Greensboro along I-40 and sleeping for a couple hours at a rest stop. Best second honeymoon we’ve had since we moved to North Carolina.

Meanwhile, the whole lot of us are in Pennsylvania until Sunday, and for those of you travelling during the holiday season, I have two bits of advice. One drive safely: there’s lots of lousy drivers and even worse text messagers out there these days. And two, if you head through Tennessee, take a camera (it’s truly beautiful country), but leave the compass at home: it won’t do you any good anyway.

National Novel Writing Month and Me

2010-11-04T12:35:00.000-04:00

What you’ve heard is true: November is national novel writing month. This is a tradition that is as old as time itself – eleven years. The official website (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) claims the first Nanowrimo was held in 1999. Yes, I thought time would be older as well. Who knew?

Still, this reminds me of the first time the kids ever came to Pennsylvania. Summer 2004. traci and I had been married for a few months, and we were driving down over the hill to visit Maga and Pappap. Zac was eleven, Sam was eight, and Naomi was four.

Sam said, “My friend had to have his index removed.”

I said, “His index?”

Sam said, “Yes.”

Naomi said, “Did it hurt?”

Sam said, “I didn’t feel a thing.”

Naomi said, “What’s an index?”

Zac said, “I think he means appendix.”

Sam said, “Yes, appendix.”

Naomi said, “What’s an appendix?”

Zac said, “Nobody knows.”

Naomi said, “Why do we have one if we don’t know what they are?”

Zac said, “Sometimes organs that were once useful lose their necessity as the body evolves in order to adapt to our environment.”

Sam said, “Basically, we grew out of it: like tonsils.”

Naomi said, “Yeah, but that was a long time ago. Like back in the nineties.”

This conversation is noteworthy to me, because it marks the first time I realized that my kids think of me not only as a different generation, but also as a primitive stage of the evolutionary cycle. All said, it’s not an awful feeling, and it does make me appreciate how difficult it was for my parents to adjust to losing their tails.

Meanwhile, back at National Novel Writing Month: traci and I have talked for years about taking part in this tradition. Each year, we’ve opted out. This year, we decided that since we’ve never been busier in our whole lives, we might as well try to crank out a 50,000 word work of fiction. (We are doing this unofficially.) That’s approximately 1,666 words a day.

In response to your first question: Is that a lot of words? Well, for instance, The Declaration of Independence has about 1,300 words. And that took fifty-six people like a month and a half to write. So, yes, I’d say 1,666 a day is a considerable amount.

In response to your second question: Will I be in your novel? No, you will not. Rather, I’m attempting a fantasy novel I’m tentatively calling The Epic Asskicking Saga of Princess Badass. It’s terrible. Perhaps the worst thing I’ve ever written. traci is writing an awesome novel, which she will tell you all about at a later date. You are not in that novel either.

But maybe you’ll be in the sequels. Meanwhile, we are both a little bit behind schedule, but optimistic. As neither of us teaches on Fridays, we have vowed to write our asses off on those days. I’ll leave you with that compelling image. Wish us luck.

Why We're Such Awesome Parents, Who Rock

2010-10-25T21:55:00.000-04:00

Hi all,

In response to your first question, "Jackson, where have you been?", let me say this: when the baby gets the twenty-four hour flu, daddy gets to have the flu for the whole week.

In response to question 2a, "Jackson, does it hurt when you drill through the board into the finger holding the board?", I have to say, "Yes. Yes it does hurt."

In repsonse to question 2b, "Jackson, does it matter which finger?", I have to tell you people, there are some things you need to find out for yourself.

Meanwhile. Now, I know it's not son-appreciation week, but our boys are still okay I suppose. For instance, after we got groceries today, Zac and Sam ran up two flights of stairs to hug traci and thank her for buying a big round box of oats and a big flat brown bag of brown sugar.

"Your kids are great," we hear. "I wish my kids were more like your kids," folks say. Nobody ever really wants to know how we do it, though. Well, I'll tell you anyway. Here's our secret: bore them into submission. Every time they take off a sock and you think it might hit the floor instead of the hamper, explain the ways in which the Grand Canyon was formed by the gentle wheedling away of rock by sand and water and sun doing their things, and that a sock is never just a sock so much as an indication of a greater detritus of the soul, something heinous about society that hurts us in our hearts -- you see, sure, it's a sock today, but tomorrow you might not fold my shirt right or you might leave my towel where I threw it in the corner. Before you know it, the whole house is a shambles. The plains are a canyon. Pangea is all over the flipping place. So just please please pick up the sock.

Trust me, your kids will be great too. And you won't have to inflame that old tennis elbow with all the same-old, same-old spankings.

The girls are great, too. Naomi is memorizing "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe. It's lovely to listen to, "Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore," you know, but when what you really want to do is watch Mad Men, well, the children will still be talented and gifted tomorrow, but Don Draper will only be popular for as long as people tell him to be. "While I nodded, nearly napping . . ." she said. "Why are you doing that?" asked traci. Naomi said, "suddenly their came a tapping." I said, "You know, some folks argue that the universe began with someone gently tapping," and she sprinted off to bed.

Blaisey is Itchy the Cat today. She had been Fluffy the Cat for the longest time. The other day she was Princess the Cat Who Would Like Daddy to Get Her Some Water Meow. Before that she was Bitey the Mean Cat and I was Steely the Scared Dog. Oh, the ever-changing self. In the midst of all these feline incarnations, Blaisey did find time to be sick last week. I lay beside her in bed reading while she drifted in and out of sleep. One moment, she woke to tell me, "Dinosaurs eat leaves." Another she said, "Some chipmunks like to climb trees." Some time later she woke and said, "Other chipmunks like to drink water." I read about twenty pages of a really good book and she said, "Apples that are green are pears."

When I caught the bug proper, I was most likely to simply say, "I think I'm gonna puke." Or "I think I puked." Or some variation on the theme.

On that note, I'll try to keep you all up to date more frequently on the events of our family. In the meantime, I'll ask the questions this time, "If apples that are green are pears, what's an orange if it's not orange?" And "If you're a chipmunk who doesn't like to climb trees or drink water, what kind of life is that anyway?"

Hazards Upon the Long Run

2010-10-07T19:52:00.002-04:00

Much like the Neanderthal civilization, Greensboro, North Carolina has no sidewalks. As a result, I often end up crossing regrettable intersections at bad angles and testing the pavement of dubious crosswalks.

Much like other Neanderthal beings, I approach the outside world cautiously. Neanderthal joggers often peeked from side to side along the game trails, hoping to detect saber tooth tigers and Casteroides ohioensis. As for me, while I have been hit or almost hit by just about every kind of motorized vehicles from motorcycles to dump trucks, nothing chases me off the road so often as the mid-sized to enormous four-door road vehicles. By their nature, these “SUVs” are harmless gentle, creatures who will not engage a human, even when provoked. They have little interest in human beings whatsoever. Even if you sneak behind them and poke them with sticks or attempt to entice them with a conversation about Moby Dick or The Wrath of Kahn, they will hardly even acknowledge your existence.

However, beneath the surface, something terrifying lurks. (That’s not necessarily true, I just thought it would add some dramatic tension.)

However, seriously, during particular times of the day – e.g. morning, noonish, evening, afternoon – these beautiful creatures begin a frantic scurry, a meticulously choreographed ballet. During which times, it doesn’t matter what bright colors you’re wearing or how many babies you’re pushing in the stroller, these clamoring beasts will not be deterred. It is in their nature to neither change course, nor slow down, so don’t sprain an ankle in a crosswalk, and if you do, don’t bother begging for mercy. My only guess is that we humans are just too tiny for the great “SUV” to even recognize. For them to see us as sentient creatures would be much like a human being thinking that a dog or a turtle should have some kind of rights. Ridiculous.

While these frequent, if unexplained, mass migrations might be equally beautiful and dangerous, even our top scientists have failed to explain the significance of such events. When I asked Zac about it, he said, “I don’t know, Dad. Can I please finish my homework now?” Sam, similarly, responded, “You are so weird.”

If you are like me and you live in a place where such beautiful animals roam the grand paths through our cities, but you would nonetheless like to take a long run once-or-so a week, consider Sunday mornings. I have found it is much easier to get in ten, twelve miles with little chance of being run over by an “SUV” from around 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. It is at this rare time of the week that the “SUV”s gather in a sort of ritual silence in front of enormous barnlike structures. While none of the creatures ever enter the structure, they sit outside quietly, one might say reverently, as I run by.

Why do these magnificent beast choose this moment to gather and remain silent? What draws them to these enormous domiciles? Will there ever be a day when humans and “SUV”s live in harmony? Are modern “SUV”s truly the descendent of some ancient coupling of a station wagon and a military vehicle? Or did they spring forth into their suburban resting grounds fully formed sometime in the mid-90s? I asked some of our family’s top anthropologists. Naomi said, “Seriously, Dad? Get a life.” Blaisey sat thoughtfully for a spell and said, “Can I have some ice cream?” Who’s right? I don’t know. It is unlikely that any of us will know for quite some time. For now, it is enough for me that at least once a week, the great beasts and I call a truce and coexist peacefully, in no hurry, paying homage to the world in our own ways.

Note to runners: Please be cautioned if you take this running tip. If you run past noon on these “days of 4WD rest” as I like to call them, all proverbial bets are off. When those bells ring twelve, all hell breaks loose.

Meanwhile, I leave you all with these two thoughts:

1. “Would any tree be safe with a beaver as big as a Buick?”

http://www.yourdiscovery.com/video/prehistoric-castoroides-the-giant-beaver/

And 2. "Smells like a steak and seats thirty-five."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4QgWRycd7I

Fancy Drink

2010-10-03T21:57:00.001-04:00

As national Jackson Appreciation Weekend winds down, traci asked me if she could get me anything from the kitchen. I asked her if she could get me a beer in one of our fancy glasses.

I don't know -- they just sometimes taste better this way.

On Nature v. Nurture

2010-10-01T09:23:00.000-04:00

Given the relatively obvious design of shirts, maybe you’d think that I’d be able to put them on frontwards at least 50% of the time. I’m here to tell you today, you’re wrong. In fact, I can easily go two, three weeks without putting a t-shirt on right the first time. “Well, at least you get it right the second time,” you might be thinking. Nope, just like flipping a quarter, my odds don’t change from one application to the next. Why am I like this? What’s wrong with me? Is it nature or nurture?

I can only base my own guesses on what other people have told me. As an undergrad, a woman in my dorm said, for example, she would never date me because I did not have a hairy chest, and she would only date men with hairy chests. I hadn’t asked or intended to ask her out, but you can imagine at this point, I desperately wanted to. The only thing I could think to do was grow my bangs very long and hope that would be close enough. With my locks shimmering tucked into the neckband, I asked Gina if she'd like to get a pizza with me. She said, “No. That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” Until then, I guess I just assumed that everybody likes pizza.

What’s wrong with me? Other possibilities? I blame Pappap. For instance: the first time I came home from college with a beard, Pappap raised his eyebrows and told me about the first time he came home from the Navy with a beard. He said, “I walked in the front door, and my old man was taking a nap on the couch. He opened one eye and said, ‘What the hell is that?’ So I said, ‘It’s a goattee.’ The old man said, ‘Yeah, I tried to grow a beard once. It looked like shit, too.’”

This, of course, was my first sophomore year of college. Meanwhile, I told Angelo that I really liked his beard and wished that I could grow a beard like his. He said, “Why don’t you grow one?”

I said, “I can’t grow a beard.”

He said, “Well, not with that attitude. You’ve gotta really want it.”

As you can imagine, time went by. I did some other things: dropped out of college, learned to snowboard, had a really nice cup of coffee at a Country Fair of all places. Clearly, it has been an eventful decade and a half. The good news is: I finally have a hairy chest. The really good news is: it’s because my beard is officially that long. (How about that pizza now, Gina?)

In fact, when traci and I went back-to-school shopping, she picked teaching shirts based on how well they showed off my beard. I'm in vogue, to be sure, but such clothing has resulted in my many awkward questions such as, “Does this V-back make my shoulders look narrow?”

Well? What do you think?

Make Friends, Not Beds

2010-09-28T10:25:00.001-04:00

As a family-oriented blogger, I get a lot of questions about all kinds of relationships. In response to those of you who have been writing to ask about friendship: e.g. what makes a good friend? how does one know when one is no longer friends with someone else? what are the limits of friendship? There is one simple key to a solid friendship. You know those sheets that go on your bed first – not the elegant rectangular ones, but the ones with elastic and horribly misshapen corners. Well if you have never asked me to fold one of those for you, then we are probably good friends. If you haven’t heard from me in a while, think about your laundry and my interaction with it.

Meanwhile, for those of you still struggling with folding such heinous linen, consider my three step process:

Step 1: (unfolded)

Step 2: (folding)

Step 3: (folded)

Best of luck to all of you in your laundry endeavors.

The Renovator

2010-09-12T13:30:00.000-04:00

I’ve been away from the blog this week, as I have been busy pretending to work on the house and grade my students’ papers while secretly reading The Great Book of Amber. Yesterday, in fact, when I was supposed to respond to student quizzes, I asked them all if they’d got the all the right answers. Some said, “Yes.” For those who said, “No,” I said, “Would you get all the right answers now if I gave you the same quiz?” They said, “Oh, yes. Oh, my, yes.” So I marked them all down for A’s and drove to the hardware store parking lot to pretend to shop while I secretly read a fantasy novel.

Before we begin, I have a morality tale from earlier in the week:

Have you ever been stung by a wasp whilst spraying for mosquitoes?
Me too, which begs the question: who is the real monster here?
It’s the wasps. Trust me, that’s the moral.

Anyway, what’s wrong with me? Well, it probably all has to do with my plumbing. Plumbing is a delicate art that, if I understand correctly, was invented 8,000 years ago in Egypt, perfected 2,600 years ago in Rome, and introduced to Western Pennsylvania in the late 1970’s.

A lot of one’s personality can be determined by answers to fundamental questions about plumbing. For instance:

When there’s a problem with the plumbing, do you:
A: Call a professional?
B: Call for Sam to bring you a pair of socks and a roll of duct tape?

One’s answer, I believe, speaks volumes.

So yesterday, when the problems arose, Sam showed up with the duct tape and said, “I couldn’t find any socks. What about the one you have on.” That’s my boy. Problem solved.

Sometimes the kids ask me, “How did you learn so much about building stuff?”

Well, just from paying attention mostly. Also, I spent some time doing various forms of construction when I was supposed to be studying for my Intro to Biology final exam. But at the heart of everything I know about stuff getting built is Pappap. For instance, I remember his vivid instructions about plumbing. When I was very young, he told me, “There are three things you need to know about plumbing. Hot water goes on the left. Cold on the right. And shit don’t run uphill.”

Clearly I was destined for renovating.

Some people like to call it “home improvement,” but, really, would anybody call this improvement?

I think not. Renovating, rather, from the root word “novate,” meaning: screw up real bad. I think. I hope not to be redundant here in quoting the great plumber and writer Ray Carver, who said, “We all do better in the future.”

Meanwhile, Blaisey borrowed Zac’s guitar this morning and wrote three songs. Song 1: “All the Penguins Go to School.” Song 2: “All the Other Animals Go to School, But Not the Penguins.” Song 3: “The Animals Don’t Go to School, But Sissy and Blaisey Go to School.” Each of the songs has similar motifs and rhythms, a lot of humming in the middle of the lines, and several words that I’m not familiar with. Each song also contains the lyrics, “But you and me will never die, hmmm hmm hmmm hmm I like pie.” Needless to say, if Isaac Brock gets a hold of this talent, Blaisey certainly be a Glacial Pace artist any day now.

For the record, did anybody hear me ask for cpvc rubber cement in my coffee this morning? No. You didn’t. Which again, is sort of beside the point as it leaves me wondering: if the cpvc rubber cement applicator is in my coffee mug, what’s holding all the plumbing together? The answer, I believe, is clear: we’ll never know.

Cup Half Something

2010-09-07T18:40:00.000-04:00

In response to your questions about distinctions between optimism and pesimism:

On the one hand, I spent three hours this morning / afternoon installing one particularly tricky piece of drywall. Granted there was some plumbing and some wiring involved. But still.

On the other hand, I got to listen to We Were Already Dead before the Ship Even Sank and The Moon and Antartica (twice) today, and all I had to do was hang one crumby sheet of drywall.

Everything said, I've had worse days. How was yours?

Surviving Wet Shoes

2010-09-05T21:52:00.000-04:00

How to Learn to Love Teaching in Wet Shoes
by Jackson Connor

Step 1: Make sure to put the spaghetti sauce near the hatchback in a plastic bag so it will just roll right out.

Step 2: When it falls, stand there – do NOT try to get out of the way or try to catch it under any circumstances – just sort of watch it roll and listen to it explode.

Step 3: Look really stupid for a little while, because let’s face it.

Step 4: Get the hose.

Step 5: You know what: the shoes are simply not going to dry over the next few hours, so suck it up. Slosh into the classroom. When your students moosh their faces all up like you’re an idiot, act like they’re the idiots who don’t know the pleasures of moderately damp shoes. When all else fails, think of it like this: you’re kids love stories that end in with you standing there at a slight disadvantage, but somehow coming out on top – that oughtta get you through the day.

Post Script: if you resubtitle the post “How to Learn to Love Working a Twelve Hour Shift at the Steel Mill with Boots Full of Very Hot Coffee from Sheetz,” everything remains the same. Except “Step 4” which now reads, “Hop around on one foot for a long time, trying to decide whether you’re madder about the lost coffee or the moist boot.”

Meanwhile, happy Labor Day everyone.

Animal Health Recommendations

2010-09-01T14:43:00.000-04:00

A lot of you have been asking me lately: "How do you get Desi to take her doggie vitamins?"

Well, he are five easy steps to getting Desi her pills:

Step 1: Buy a loaf of fancy bread at the grocery store.
Step 2: Eat some of the bread, but forget to wrap it up, so it will go bad.
Step 3: Put the pill in the bad bread.
Step 4: Put the bad bread in the garbage can.
Step 5: Sit back and watch the magic.

It’s true, with just these five simple steps you, too, can give Desi her medicine. This time-tested technique has proven itself over and over – flea medicine, heartworm prevention, antacids. Research here at our household indicate Desi will eat damn-near anything that’s been placed in a stale loaf of bread and hidden deep in the trash can. traci has even suggested that if you hid her salvation in the garbage and Desi found it, she would eat that, too.

And, of course, Desi says Hi:

Post Script: We would never hide Desi's salvation in the trash can.

Beachtrip 2008 (a rerun)

2010-08-30T22:25:00.000-04:00

I'm double-dipping into the old, failed blog with this post -- it's the story of our beach trip from two years ago. If it meets popular acclaim, perhaps I'll write the update of this year's beach, river, or raccoon trip. To it:

This summer, there was some dissention in the family as to whether we should go to the water park just south of Greensboro or to the ocean (the Atlantic Ocean), which is way off to the right of us I’m told. Since there have been water parks in all the other states we’ve lived in, but very few oceans, we opted for the latter.

On the way to the beach, we played our modified family version of 21 Questions, which would more accurately be called Infinite Questions. Naomi started. I said, “Is it a mineral?”

Naomi said, “I don’t know.”

Sam said, “Is it a place?”

Naomi said, “Sort of."

Zac said, “Is it a person?”

Naomi said, “Yes.”

I said, “Is the person in this car?”

Naomi said, “Yes.”

traci said, “Is the person Blaisey?”

Naomi said, “Yes, good job, Mom.”

traci’s turn took us through a series of questions in which we determined that the answer wasn’t blue, green, a person, a rock, a giraffe, the direction East, the cat, the Previa, Dad, or a turtle. We asked, "Are you sure it’s not the cat?"

"Yes."

We said, "But what about a really BIG rock?, have you thought about making the answer: Pepsi, what about crackers, Cracker Jacks, Jack Sparrow, an unlaiden Sparrow, I think it’s a swallow, no it’s a sparrow, technically it could be either since neither could carry a coconut, are you sure it’s not the color blue?, I mean like a gigantic rock, like bigger than the moon?"

We were, you all can imagine, just about stumped.

Naomi said, “I know, I know. Can you eat it?”

traci said, “Yes.”

Naomi said, “Are you sure it’s not blue?”

traci said, “Yes.”

Naomi said, “Grapes.”

traci said, “No.”

Naomi said, “Macaroni and Cheese.”

traci said, “Yes. Excellent.”

Nailed it. Naomi said since she had already gone, I could have her turn, which is good, because as is my way in all things, I’d been spending their turns preparing for my turn. We had recently watched the spoof Meet the Spartans, which makes fun of the movie 300, which was based on the graphic novel by the same name. I kept the rest of the family easily at bay through the mineral, animal, etcetera part of the questions. Finally, they found my scent with traci’s, “Is it an idea?”

I said, “Yes.”

It took them a while longer to lock down the fact that it was a sentence, but once that happened, they made quick work of me. traci said, “A sentence? That’s not an idea. It’s probably a line from a stupid movie.”

I said, “Yes.”

Sam said, “Is it, ‘Come let us talk by the giant pit of death.’?”

I said, “Yes. Good job, Sam.”

And it was Sam’s turn.

Sam thought for a few minutes, and he said, “Okay, I got one. It’s a good one. But it’s way too hard to guess. So I’ll just tell you. It’s Nothingness.”

Zac said, “That was going to be my first guess.”

Sam said, “Okay, it’s your turn.”

Zac said, “Got one.”

traci said, “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

Zac said, “You know, Mom, that’s a relative question. A breadbox, after all, could be as big as the ocean.”

Naomi said, “Is it the ocean?”

Zac said, “Yes. gg.” (gg is video game player, or “gamer,” lingo for “Good Game.” traci and I hold five English degrees between the two of us, and neither of us can explain to the kids why they shouldn’t use such shorthand in their speaking or writing, so we lol when Zac ggs us and move on.)

Zac pointed out that we had all already gone once, except for Desi who doesn’t have language, and except for Leah. He said, “I guess it’s Leah’s turn.” Now, this trip was in the middle of July, and she hasn’t gone yet, but we’re expecting her to bust out a really good one any minute now. She’s already had a long time to think about it.

It’s a four-hour trip to the beach, and the Atlantic Ocean was much as I had left it nineteen years before (my only other trip to the Atlantic to date) when I had taken my family to Myrtle Beach for some sort of Engineering conference, except that this time I couldn’t stop thinking about ee cummings’s characters Maggie and Minnie and Molly and May:

maggie and milly and molly and may

By e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

The poem doesn’t have any relevance to what I’m writing, nor does it add a layer to the letter, nor does it inform our reading of this text. It’s just what I think about while I’m at the beach these days. I hadn’t known of the characters when I was twelve, and otherwise, I jumped into the breakers, trying to beat the ocean at its own game. I jumped sideways, and head on, and dove through the waves, and rolled with the big ones, and I’m certain, if I had only had a little more time, I would have won – the same eternal struggle and conclusion I had drawn when I was younger. On the other hand, I hear that the ocean is very much like an Atari game that just seems to go on and on forever.

And that seems equally likely and unlikely to me.

We put on sunblock. We ran in small circles. We ate sandwiches and chips – I’ve always thought it ironic to eat SANDwiches at the beach. We chased Leah, who was chasing Desi, around the sand. We pretended to build a sand castle, but got distracted by the way the waves kept piling up on themselves and piling up and piling up, but not making anything noticeably bigger.

Then we drove home, listening to Modest Mouse’s album The Moon and Antarctica. "And we're never gonna find another ocean on the planet, given that our blood is just like the Atlantic, and that's how the world began, and that's how the world will end." All told, the beach was a fine decision.

The day after our trip, I made mention of the fact that when we left for the ocean, I had been concerned about Leah, who hadn’t had a bowel movement the evening before, but after a short time in the ocean, she was regular – in fact, one could say, extra-regular – again. traci put a checkmark on the chalkboard beside “Things Daddy Should Keep to Himself.” And I pondered the possibility that the salt water had loosened her bowels up and that maybe it, the ocean, was good for all of us in ways that we don’t immediately recognize.

Naomi, who had been washing her breakfast dishes, said, “Well, the ocean does make shit happen.”

Yes. Little one. I suppose it does. But we’ll talk more about that another time. Right now, we have to compile our shopping lists – school supplies – for tomorrow, and hope that there will be something interesting left to learn when we start fourth, seventh, and tenth grades next week.

I suggest you all do the same. Take care, y’all, and we’ll keep you up to date on N.C.

Afterward:

That was two years ago, and we've all gotten much taller or stronger or smarter or more flexible, and we have done many things in the interim, but, if our trip to this summer's (2010) beach trip tells us anything, the ocean is still pretty much the same size and relative shape. "The universe is shaped excactly like the earth -- if you go straight long enough . . ."

Finding Hamlet

2010-08-27T09:57:00.000-04:00

For the past week, Zac has been searching around the house, the car, the rock gym, downtown G-boro, the Enmity Shopping Center, the grocery store, several restaurants, the high school, his friends’ houses, his enemies’ houses, some houses he’d never been to but was always curious about, looking for Hamlet. He opened drawers, unfolded laundry, unmade beds, sucked the marrow from the bones of this old house. He scoured parking lots, dusted railroad tracks, scrubbed courtyards with a toothbrush.

We said, “What’s with all the cleaning?”

He said, “I guess I’ve overwrought the metaphor.”

He had. And still, the Dane was nowhere to be found. “Have you seen Hamlet?” he would say. “I’m looking for Hamlet.” “I should never have left Hamlet alone.” Don’t we know this by now, one should never leave Hamlet alone. We were, of course, distraught. They say if we had twelve monkeys with twelve flashlights, we might have been able to find Hamlet. But that was little consolation and very confusing.

For all of you who have been concerned, I found Hamlet and all of his words words words underneath the blue chair in the family room. We should have known.

The Thumb Holder

2010-08-25T15:36:00.000-04:00

Last night, as I was walking away from tucking in the girls, Blaisey said, “Once upon a time, there was a dinosaur.” And it was like the oral-story version of 1,000,000 years B.C, and I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t look away. Luckily, Naomi was very tired, so she said, “Blaisey, maybe you could tell the story about the sissy who was too tired to stay awake for a story and the other sissy who loved her very much, so she didn’t tell a story.” So I chuckled and blew them both kisses and said, “Goodnight.”

I turned off the light and listened to Blaisey say, “Once upon a time, there was a sissy who was very tired and couldn’t stay awake . . .” My job here was done. I moved on.

As it turned out, Naomi really couldn’t stay awake. She drifted off. Moments later, Blaisey appeared at our door and said, “I’m hungry.” I said, “It’s very late. What do you want to eat?” She said, “A story.” I said, “I don’t have time to make a story. How about if I carry you to bed and lie down beside you.” She said, “Okay.”

Naomi was asleep, so Blaisey and I agreed to be very very quiet. We agreed to close our eyes. We agreed that I would lie on the floor beside her bed, and she would hold my thumb so I wouldn’t fall off the floor. Naomi did not budge. I stayed as still as a pantomime miming a rock. Blaisey did yoga or some sort of martial art.

I said, “Are you okay, Blaisey?”

She snored a little.

I started to stand. Blaisey said, “Where are you going?”

I said, “To bed.”

She said, “You said you would sleep beside me for a little while.”

I said, “I did.”

She said, “Not a little while enough.”

I lay back down, her hand wrapped tight around my thumb.

Naomi slept peacefully. I lay there biding my time. Blaisey snored while she did some sort of Civil War reenactment. At one point, her arms and legs, well, scattered about the bed, her breathing tame, I began to move towards the stairs. She said, “Daddy, you said you would sleep beside me for a while.”

I said, “Yes, but I’m tired.”

She said, “You can sleep here.”

“But I need to sleep beside mommy.”

“You can bring her up here.”

“But she’s asleep in our own bed.”

“You can bring it up here.”

“But our bed’s heavy.”

“You’re very strong.”

She had a point. I said, “How about if I just lie here a little while longer?”

“Okay.”

She held my thumb. I made lesson plans. I wrote future plans. I redrafted the constitution: it went like this: “Just be nice. And let everyone be nice to you.” I wondered why sweat-wicking socks don’t work for me. I thought about how I always (always) overcook spaghetti. I wondered why I don’t just make coffee the night before, so I don’t have to do it first thing while I wake up. Blaisey snored and did little backwards summersaults.

Eventually – just like the first scene from the first Indiana Jones movie – I moved part of her blankey in the place my thumb used to be, and sneaked off into the night.

Blaisey said, “Where are you going?”

I said, “I can’t sleep here tonight.”

She said, “I allow you.”

I said, “But then Mommy will be alone.”

She said, “She has all your t-shirts.” (Long story.)

I walked to the toy trunk and brought her a penguin. (We call it a “piggy” in our family . . . another long story.) I said, “Here, buddy. Every time you squeeze this, I’ll know how much you love me.”

She said, “It might hurt.”

I said, “Well, then, just squeeze the piggy’s thumb.”

She squeezed the piggy’s thumb. I said, “I love you very much, buddy.”

She said, “I know, daddy. I love you very much, too.”

The moral of the story is this: I don’t want much out of life, in fact just three things. 1.) A good I.P.A. each night – very hoppy, a touch of citrus, very bitter (bitter enough to make me wonder why I like I.P.A.s. 2.) Equality for all people in all ways period. And. 3.) I wish that each night somebody would want to hold onto my thumb for longer than I want anybody to hold onto my thumb – it’s probably the best thing in the world.

I realize that’s a lot to ask, but it’s a big world, and today seems like an appropriate time to ask for such things, so I’ll keep my fingers crossed, my arms folded, and my yin curled infinitely around my yang.

Post Script: if anybody knows where I can get a grant or a fellowship for one or several or all of my kids to hold my thumb each night, please tell me. I’d be eternally grateful, and would reciprocate by holding your thumb at a business meeting or while you call a credit card company or whatever some days.

Running Tip of the Day

2010-08-24T13:51:00.000-04:00

Hill Repeats:

Step One: Find a Hill.
Step Two: Wait until Garbage Day.
Step Three: Run up and down the Hill.

Many of the runners I’ve coached – well, so far it’s only been me, but I feel that I’ve developed such a strong bond with myself that the number will grow exponentially (someday to as many as 1^23 runners under my tutelage) – many of the runners I’ve coached have wondered, “Why would you pick garbage day to run up and down hills?

And, to be honest, even I wasn’t certain at first. Today, though, I know that I chose garbage day in order to teach myself to breathe through my mouth and maximize my oxygen intake. Which just goes to show me that I should never question my own coaching advice. Luckily, according to Ray Carver, we all do better in the future.

Back to School 2010

2010-08-21T13:24:00.001-04:00

Naomi turned eleven last week – for those of you keeping track, that’s two of the same number. She starts advanced tumbling and trampoline class on Tuesday, middle school and playing the trumpet on Wednesday, and level 4 gymnastics on Thursday. Her true passion, though, is drums, but middle school band doesn’t introduce percussion until January. I only mention this, because a drummer will bring our family one step closer to our dream of being a brass / string / percussion / piano cover band of Modest Mouse.

Zac and Sam are still on the bouldering team, climbing tiny mountains, mostly upside down. It’s frustrating to watch, because if they knew as much about gravity as I know, they’d fall right off the wall, but they seem to have fun.

Sam starts high school this year and is excited about his new academic courses. Too academic, if you ask me. I think we all know that the whole idea behind evolution is for one’s offspring to surpass one’s self in every way – well, I think we all know that Sam’s well past that point. In fact, until he invents a time machine, the only superlatives I have in this relationship are that I’m older and my beard’s bigger.

Zac still works at the rock gym belay certifying the hell out of everything in sight. He’s taking up cross country for his senior year and seems to be having fun. Given the current economic climate, he thinks it’s in his best interest to apply for colleges for next fall. traci and I are all like, “Dude, like, whatever, man. Like maybe you should just hitchhike for a while or learn to ski or just chill out for a year or two.” And Zac said, “Don’t try to control me.” So we all just turned back to our Ironman cartoons and went on with our lives.

Blaisey is excited to start back to her ABC school Wednesday. She graduated with the turtle class last spring and looks forward to being a duck this year. She’ll be continuing on learning alphabet, not-biting, and violin. I don’t need to say it, but The All Connor Modest Mouse Cover Band just sounds so good. Luckily for me, I’m hell with a kazoo, or else I’d have to stick to being the band manager. Meanwhile, she is still much bigger than even the biggest bread box I’ve ever seen, and growing. As the fourth tallest member of our household, I celebrate the notion that it will be another decade before she surpasses me.

traci and I are both teaching three classes this fall, and boy are our brains tired. Meantime, we’ve also started writing a collection of short-short stories, and we’re going to start submitting those to journals soon. More importantly, we’re thinking this should definitely be our year to win the lottery. I guess we’re just going to have to pick the right day to buy the card.

Until then, we wish you all the best in your fall-time endeavors. Keep your eyes open for air sharks. One never knows what such creatures will be up to during migration season.

Also, Desi says Hi:

The Story Prize

2010-08-21T13:22:00.000-04:00

traci recently entered her book in The Story Prize contest for 2010. As a follow-up many entrants were asked to respond to some questions or write an essay. She did both.

One of the questions she did not answer went like this: “At what stage do you start seeking feedback on your work and from whom?”

I suggested this answer: “I’d be interested to see what people say in my obituary. Until then, I’d just as soon everyone minds her or his own business.”

traci chose not to include my suggestion. Larry Dark posted her response on his blog. Other good writers' work is there as well. Check it out.

"The Whale Song"

2010-08-21T13:11:00.000-04:00

"The Whale Song" has been my song of the day since about early July. I don't really want to say anything about it. Except it's good and I like it.

Queen Itinerary

2010-08-21T13:08:00.000-04:00

When I got back from a long run this morning, Naomi had made breakfast in bed for traci – eggs, toast, milk – and had left this note beside her plate:

Itinerary Queen

Breakfast
Walk
Movie hour
Lunch
Hawaiian time
dancing
free hour
Painting
get dressed
party

My favorite part of the list: "get dressed" comes, apparently, right around dusk. That’s my kind of life.

Running Update

2010-08-21T13:00:00.000-04:00

Towards the end of last school year, after a rather long run, Blaisey said to me, “Daddy, you’re tootie.” I explained to her that sometimes when I run, my G.I. system gets to working and I get a touch of the gas. She said, “Oh,” and kept watching Ironman cartoons. A few weeks later on the way home from her ABC school, we stopped into the convenience store, and she said, “Why are we stopping here, Daddy?” I told her we were getting some gas. She said, “Are we going for a run?” No, little turtle, not this time.

Last night, Desi stayed right beside me for a twenty-five minute run. When I got done, I said to traci, “Why is it that I’m sweating like crazy, and Desi’s not even breathing hard?” She said, “I don’t know. What setting was the treadmill on?” But I couldn’t remember, so we just chalked it up as another mystery of the universe.

Butternut Squash

2010-08-19T19:00:00.000-04:00

It's an ancient family story, and one I've heard so many times, as Uncle Dewey would say, that I'm actually starting to believe I was there for it. When I was four, five, six, we were visiting Aunt Jan at her school. Jan had a goat -- Guinevere, if I recall -- and, of course, I wanted nothing to do with it. Pappap told me I might oughtta pet her, that she's very friendly and likes attention. Nuh-uh, are you crazy?

Pappap said, "Why don't you want to pet her?"

I said, "Why would I want to pet her?"

And, according to our family custom, we just kind of stared dumbly at each other for a while.

As dusk settled in, he said to me, "Well. What if somebody asked you if you've ever petted a goat?"

I said, "Dunno."

He said, "Well, this way, you'll be able to say that you have."

I don't remember if I felt like he had me cornered or if I just stumbled over a rock and put my hand on Guinevere, but I did end up petting her that day. She and I got along quite well for many years to come.

About the time I entered high school, Pappap tried to conjole me into cutting the big yard down at the camp with a reel mower. He said, "Well. What if . . ."

I said, "Dad, nobody's ever asked me to pet a goat yet, and they're not likely to care how I tend the yard."

Still and all, I kind of wish I had cut the grass with a reel mower, and I'm not even sure why. I told Pappap that once, and asked him if he knew why. He said he didn't. Proving once again, that Pappap's wisdom is sometimes so deep even he can't see past it.

I mention all this in order to say this: sometimes, the experience has to be sought out, other times, it's just there. For instance, after tonight, if anybody asks me if I've ever burnt a steamed vegetable, I can honestly say, "Yes, in fact, I have." traci and the kids and I will dine tonight on a slightly charred butternut squash. Here's to new experiences.

An Atlas, Some Vikrell, and a Premium Beer

2010-08-18T22:23:00.000-04:00

So, yes, it’s true, traci and I and various numbers of our children drove 3,000 miles over the past few weeks, wishing at every turn that we had an atlas. “We always have an atlas,” we told each other. “Where might it have gone?” we asked. But it was nowhere to be found. Until, that is, we pulled into our own driveway in N.C. and looked in the glovebox for house keys. Figures.

Meanwhile, during the 500 mile stretch from Maga and Pappap’s camp to our own home, we stopped into the Store Whose Name Should Not Be Mentioned and tried to buy an atlas. You know how the store is – enormous and blinding – but I walked the quarter mile back to the automotive department. They had three maps of Pittsburgh and one of Canada. No atlas. Still, I asked the man behind the counter if they sold atlases. He said, “You mean like a book of maps?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “Oughtta be in with the books.” After I looked through the quarter-acre book section, I asked the woman at the service desk if she had a book of maps. She said, “Like an atlas?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “Oughtta be in automotive.”

Now, here’s the thing. We all know that the Store Whose Name Should Not Be Mentioned started using computers in 19 freaking 68, and I’m not saying I’m super-tech-savvy, but in those past forty-two years shouldn’t someone have taught her how to type “atlas” in the where-it-is-in-the-store box on the computer?

It’s been like that this summer. Earlier, we went to our favorite home improvement store looking for a special order shower basin. Between the two of us, we’ve done a fair amount of building. We’ve done a great deal of research into supplies. As far as amateurs go, we know our stuff. Still, traci pointed at a picture in the catalog and said, “This one says it’s made out of Vikrell. What’s that?” The man answered, “Vikrell.” traci said, “Yes, but what is it? Will it scratch? Is it like porcelain or like fiberglass? Is it heavy? Is it dense? Is it synthetic or natural? Will it dent or rust or what?” The man said, “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s a kind of material.” The three of us stared at each other for a few seconds. Then we walked away and bought our shower basin from our second favorite home improvement store.

At the beer distributor, I asked, “What’s the difference between this brand’s lager and it’s premium lager?” The salesperson said, “One’s premium, one ain’t.”

A teacher once told me, “In order to be a good teacher, you don’t have to know all the answers, you just have to know where to find the answers.” And I’ve found that to be true. But I’ve also found that to be true of working in the steel mill and as a hoddie and as a janitor. I long for a time when people understood their jobs, when, maybe, they cared a little more. I don’t know if such a time exists. I’m probably being nostalgic for a myth. I’m probably longing for a moment which only exists in nostalgia. Might as well pile melodrama on nostalgia and close with some words of Nick Carraway: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

summer writing

2010-08-17T08:14:00.001-04:00

You’ll all recall it’s been a few years since Ange noticed the new external lock on the outhouse door down to the camp. When he asked what was the deal with that, Pappap told him we can’t have an outhouse within X feet of our brand new septic tank. We can, however, put a lock on just about anything and call it a tool shed, and, well, you can put a tool shed just about anywhere. Angelo said, “Oh, I thought you was just worried about someone stealing your shit.”

Long story short, I recently published a series of four short pieces in which Ange figures prominently. Him and Dan, you know, some pieces that are part of my new manuscript of very short writings that I call Man Made Man. Here’s a line from the third piece: “One more thing shoved deep in their guts that makes them, every once in a while, pound their fists on the steel and stone of their respective lives for, what you might say in looking at them, is no apparent reason.”

I only mention this so as to mention the pieces are in Portland Review issue 56 volume 3, which marks the first time traci and I have writing in the same journal at the same time. (We’d both been in Fourteen Hills but not the same issue.) Her short story “Goat” is also in her collection Recipes for Endangered Species (Tarpaulin Sky Press), and here’s a couple lines: “Some of Phil’s friends touch the dog, but only on the nose, far away from the knuckled damage. They are curious and ashamed in the same way they are secretly afraid of black people.” Zing! More proof that I married up.

The above, by the way, is all prefatory to this: traci gave two readings in NYC towards (I’ve been back in PA long enough that “towards” is now pronounced “t’oards” again) the end of July. The first of which was a release party for the new edition of LIT Magazine hosted by powerHouse Books. Here’s a short paragraph from her story “Zombie” which was included in the journal: “I imagine Moab as the earth turned inside out. Sage burgning. Red rocks whimpering in the god-awful heat. A wolf worn-out with howling. Selenographers on bikes, on trails, with packs that fail to open. The sky a tumor and the rare thrust from the earth. Think of the final scene of Carrie, for example.” Hazah! Such range, such beauty – a rare and beautiful talent.

traci read alongside three other amazing writers: Mike Young, Nate Pritts, and Eduardo Jiménez Mayo (who read his own translation of Rafael Pérez Gay). But don’t just take my word for it, watch the video recap by DJ Dolack here: http://coldfrontmag.com/news/launch-parties-in-nyc -- totally worth eight minutes: a great reading.

Meanwhile, after several weeks and a couple thousand miles of travel, we’re back baby in NC where the crepe myrtles are always in bloom and the heat makes you wish you’d stayed home today.

My Boys

2010-07-23T13:14:00.001-04:00

The first time we tried to teach Sam to run the circular saw, I showed him how to keep the guide level, plumb, and square; how to use the guide marks along the cut line; how to hold your tongue just out of the corner of your mouth in order to look supercool, smooth, and tough all the while. At which point, Sam said, “Why is all that electrical tape on the cord of the saw?”

I said, “Well, bud, Pappap sometimes gets ahead of him self and ends up sawing the cords off his tools.” Luckily, as we all know, Pappap is an electrician.

Sam said, “Oh.” So Pappap showed him how to use the speed square and a tape measure, how to check a two-by for warp and such, how to set the depth of the blade, how to stand with one’s hand on one’s chin just such that one looks contemplative even if on the inside one is thinking, now just where in the hell did I put my but one can’t remember the name of that thing one’s thinking about. And Sam said, “Why are there all those marks in the saw horse?”

Pappap said, “Well, bud, sometimes your old man is so focused on the cut that he doesn’t think about what’s on the other side of it.”

Sam stood there for a while, testing the weight of the saw in his hand, and set is smoothly on the work bench. He said, “Uhm, maybe I’ll just wait a while and teach myself how to run the circular saw.”

. . .

So anyway, it’s apparently “son appreciation week” or something like that. I know, I’d never heard of it either. Still, I suppose I support it – somebody oughtta appreciate the little rascals. By little, of course, I mean Zac is 6’5.” Sam, on the other hand, is only one inch taller than I.

Here’s to you, boys, I say. You sure are something. Daring. Kind. Vicious. Get your asses to work, I said. So they did. While I sat in my plush folding chair drinking rum and whatever, they did this:

Okay, boys, I appreciate it, but can you at least be a little tough about it?

Once upon a time, this was a weightbearing wall. I said, “Boys, put two headers in thar.” They said, “How?” I said, “Figure it out.” So they did. And I appreciate that. The day before that I had them build this arch:

I said, "How do you boys feel about it?" Zac said, "Great." Sam felt and looked ambiguous. The guy in the middle just sort of shows up sometimes and eats my barbecue potato chips.

And I appreciate that also. Today, I’m going to appreciate the hell out of the closet they’re going to build. Tomorrow: plumbing, I really appreciate that. Way to go boys.

Air Sharks Revisited

2010-07-19T16:34:00.000-04:00

I think of the air sharks sometimes today and wonder where they have gone. What do they do in the summer when there are no little girls to chase to school? Will they return in the fall? Perhaps they’re migratory. Perhaps they’re gone forever. I think, in the end, they are a misunderstood species, and I hope someday we will find a way to live in harmony with them the way we have with other mysterious creatures like hermit crabs. And poodles.

As we all know, we first spotted them towards the end of Early March on one of those chilly mornings when it was just darn tough to make it to the car.
Suddenly, Naomi spotted a dorsal fin upon the deck, circling. She described it to Blaisey, and the two burst forth into the bare wild morning and leapt into the waiting car, adrift in the driveway.

I hopped in and started the engine. “What happened?” I said.

Leah said, “The sharks chased us.”

Naomi said, “All the way to the car.”

I cautiously backed furiously out of the driveway and onto the road, the sharks nipping at my taillights, chasing us all the way to school.

For instance: one jumped off the overpass where Wendover Ave crosses Holden, trying to land on the car, but it missed and landed on the road. We almost ran one over. Another hid in a tree, but we drove by it really fast. Some of them waited on rooftops for us to drive by, and I said, “How do they get on the roof in the first place.”

Naomi told me. “See,” she said, “they swim up there, they’re air sharks.”

Luckily sharks are afraid of schools, so we were safe when we arrived at the parking lot. On the other hand, Blaisey did see one going down the sliding board at the playground.

. . .

The next day, Naomi caught the bus to school, leaving Blaisey and me to hustle to the car by ourselves. With the help of Blaisey’s shark-proof boots, once again we made it to school unscathed. Which is more than we can say for the rest of the world. During the drive, she actually saw an air shark in somebody’s house. The living room for goodness sake.

This made us sad for the people who lived in the house, because Blaisey and I agreed your grocery bill would have to be enormous to feed nature’s perfect make-believe killing machine. I mean, do you have any idea how much Hamburger Helper it takes to sustain one of those things?

A lot.

Though, you’re right, Tuna Helper might be the meal of choice. Still.

. . . .

The next day, Blaisey asked me to tie her running shoes very tight so she could run away from the air sharks. Nonetheless, one of the sharks tried to get in the car with us, which made Blaisey mad, because she didn't want the air shark “to come to school to eat my friend.”

If I think about it, this incident explains why she bit the little girl on the slide yesterday – even when they’re not trying to eat you, air sharks are bad influences. Role models? No, they are not role models.

. . . .

About a week later, after we dropped Naomi at school, we drove past the giant rocking chair in front of a big brick building where a great big bunny had been holding an egg for the past two weeks. This morning the bunny was gone.

You guessed it – air sharks. Blaisey was more surprised than sad, because “I thought them only ate little fishies.” No, my dear, air sharks will dine on any critter, even Easter Bunny.

. . . .

Towards the final days of March, Blaisey decided she would from now on walk to the car alone, so I would be safe from the air sharks.

I said, "But what about you?"

She said, "I be okay."

I said, "What if the air sharks come after you?"

She said, "Then I step on them. Like this {*step*} {*step*}.

It feels good to have badass daughters.

Early July

2010-07-09T20:03:00.002-04:00

I have to give credit to a neighbor who said that today feels like a scrotum -- as if the Earth were sticking to the sun's leg. Roger that, Pat. Still we finally got the hot tub off the porch and the dry wall up the stairs. We started a diet, we ended a binge, we found great comfort in the way sparkling water makes the strawberries bubbly.

There's not much news from N.C. except that it's hot in the day and humid in the night and vice versa. We've been remodelling since I "finished" my Ph.D. and landscaping and gardening and plumbing and you get the picture. For the most part, I've had two hours a day to write, and I'm working on The Wickedest City, which is becoming more of a historical novel than a Western. Even when it was like a Western, it was more like the movie Wallstreet, except without Charlie or Martin Sheen. It does have John Wilkes Booth in it, but I don't feel qualified to compare the actors.

traci's teaching students how to dream on the page, how to turn off their conscious mind and find out things through their writing that they don't know that they know. One thing we love about Guilford is that most of the students trust her to teach a course this way. Others reject the notion that they can't think their way into a story. Jerks. "Let them sit there in their heads writing diary entries," I tell her, "see if I care." But she pushes them and even more of them get it. I don't know, maybe I'd still rather teach middle-school math (my last major before English).

The kids are great. At least that's what I hear. Zac's been at the beach and in Athens and back to the beach -- I've only seen him a couple times. Naomi, Leah, and Sam are in PA with my folks for three weeks, catching and releasing racoons in wooden cages and swimming in one spot against the Allegheny's current.

I turned 33 the other day, so I set a new writing goal: I want to be the oldest "great American writer under 30" ever -- it will be tough, what with time and space going on and on like that forever. On the phone, Naomi asked me how old I turned. I said, "33." She said, "Neat. That's two of the same number." Later traci asked me, and I told her, and she said, "Neat. That's the same number twice." Genetics is a funny funny thing.

Two more years! I know I dwell on it every year, but I haven't had a birthday to look forward to since I was twenty. Two more years! The day I've been waiting for since I first learned about the judicial, legislative, and executive branches. That's right. Two more years and I'll be old enough to run for president. My elementary teachers all told me that "anybody can be president." So I figure I'll do it at least for a few years.

Maybe you all recall when I woke Naomi up for another day of fourth grade on 05 November 2008, and before she opened her eyes, she said, "Who won?" And I said, "Barack Obama. Are you excited?" And she said, "No. Not really. It's not like he's gonna come to our house or something." And that was the moment I decided my platform for 2012: If you elect me president of the United States of America, I will come to your house. I will sleep on your couch. I will leave the toilet seat up.

Anyway, Pappap and Aunt Jan drive the kids home Sunday, and Zac got home this evening. As for remodeling at this point, the good news is: traci and I are the only family members with a bedroom these days. The bad news is: the only bathroom in the house is in our bedroom. Oh, life, you thoroughly fickle thing.

Also, Desi says hello:

"Grey Ice Water"

2010-07-08T15:53:00.002-04:00

Here's what Elizabeth Bishop says about gray ice water in her poem "At the Fishhouses"

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

"Recipes for Endangered Species"

2010-07-07T12:36:00.000-04:00

If you haven't read Recipes for Endangered Species yet, go read it. Some excerpts from Matt Dube's excellent review of traci's book:

"Traci O Connor's stories in Recipes for Endangered Species suggest a writer who never did settle but who exists instead in frenzied emotional and physical spaces that, till now, seemed unsustainable, experiences that send us back to bed, twisting sheets against our pliable bodies . . .

"To read Connor's stories, I want you to understand, is to return to that world of permeable existences, where points of view shift and tilt, almost imperceptibly, and bring you to understand identity differently than what you previously allowed for: these disparate voices, these parallax views, the linguistic franks belong together, the stories say, and the way Connor bends and warps language in humid paragraphs, doesn't let you argue . . .

"Take 'Van Gogh Dreams,' the story in this collection I am most familiar with, since I published it back in 2006. The story is, on a surface level, the interior monologue of a woman with a crush on her neighbor so strong that she feels jealous of the stray cat that nuzzles up against the object of him. ...When the stray cat meets its grisly end, it happens off the page, and while the woman at the story's center doesn't seem entirely surprised the cat is gone, she, or maybe it's Connor who decides, doesn't narrate the scene but instead leaves it out. This moment instead transpires in some weird overheated ellipsis where memory is foggy because the reptile brain is in control—it happened in a textual blackout . . .

"The way the stories elude conventional structures of identity, temporality, and disclosure makes them experimental in the truest sense; these are not stories that lend themselves to Freytag's triangle or Genette's levels of narration, at least not in any way I could discern. But even in the absence of traditional markers of academic interpretation, the characters and events bear more than a passing resemblance to people you know—each story generates flashes of recognition that guide you through; I've felt that way, you say, and though you couldn't consciously identify what that feeling was, it carries you through to the next emotional node of meaning. It helps, too, that Connor's sentences pulse and groove, are fully embodied things. Take this passage from the story 'Zombie':

Imagine being, let's say, eight years old: push out pull in, in and out—your feet punch punching the sky. The winking sun. The sand moving beneath you. Your hands full up with chain. And, at just the right tempo, how you could marry, for a few romantic seconds, again and again, a total stranger. (51)

"These are adult stories, concerned with the traditional adult concerns of vocation and community-building. Instead of feeling like a voice from the past, Connor's stories suggest a separate path, one all of us were tempted to follow but which few of us had Connor's courage to steadily pursue." (DIAGRAM 10.3)

Jackson's response to Dube's review: Another great review for traci o connor. One of the great things about the great responses she's received from great readers is that every reader seems to elevate a different story. Dube discusses "Van Gogh Dreams" and "Zombie." Another reviewer writes about "Goat" and "The Flying Codona." A peer told us he felt comfortable attending our alma mater after reading "Mrs. Rotham Has a Bun in the Oven, and Plans to Eat It with Butter and Jam." traci's collection is not "A Story, and Other Stories." It is not an anthologizable story and eleven "just-fine" pieces. It's a masterpiece. It's a writer's book. If you can read Recipes . . ., and it doesn't make you want to write, you're probably not a writer (which is fine, I'm not judging, I'm just saying).

"Neverending Math Equation"

2010-07-07T10:14:00.000-04:00

When I was six, eight, ten years old (depending on who's telling the story), Mom said to Dad, "Aren't you worried about Jackson? All he does is play Atari and eat Twinkies." Dad thought about it for a moment and said, "Yeah, but he's really good at it."

A few decades from now, maybe the story will go: Mom said, "Aren't you worried about Jackson? All he does is drink coffee and type type type." The rest, I suppose, remains to be seen.

Meanwhile, maybe this song is a better birthday song. Posted post-birthday, "And the plants and the animals they're all linked, and the plants and the animals eat each other."

"People as Places as People"

2010-07-06T10:23:00.000-04:00

Seems an appropriate birthday song. Thinking about all "the people you loved but you didn't quite know." It's a good day for that sort of thing. I've heard a lot about Isaac Brock's being cynical, and I've heard a lot about this album being soft, and I don't know how to reconcile all that, except to say I think this song is very tender and tough, and, ultimately, a pleasure to listen to.

Today's Bonus: the link is for a playlist such that we may enjoy Modest Mouse for many minutes by simply clicking on the above title. Oh technology, like a modestly angelic mouse, what joy!

"Rara Avis: How to Tell a True Bird Story"

2010-07-01T21:59:00.000-04:00

I had an essay reviewed by "The Review Review," and I was happy with it, so I cut and pasted it here:

'Jackson Connor spices up the pastoral in his essay, “Rara Avis: How to Tell a True Bird Story.” He tells a fake one, sort of. Connor identifies bird species in rural Pennsylvania, where he grew up. But he also says that he can’t always tell one bird from another: “If I’m pressed…anything bigger than a sparrow is a red-tailed hawk, and anything smaller than a redtail is a sparrow.” Myth debunked: country boys always know the moods, flight patterns and names of every creature in the yard.

'Connor also flouts a second archetype: country boy so in tune with nature that he doesn’t have a cynical bone in his body. Connor presents something very different while recounting—and maybe embellishing—a scene from grade school. When his teacher asks the class to share family stories with a moral, Connor shares an anecdote from the Vietnam War. Seems his uncle Dewey parachuted into a Vietcong regiment after chugging bourbon in midair. When his teacher asks for the moral of the story, Connor says, “Don’t fuck with my uncle Dewey when he’s been drinking.”

'Cute little naturalists don’t talk like that, do they? Alas, Connor won’t make Oprah’s shortlist. He’s too irreverent, though highly entertaining.'

I posted the link to the page, if you're interested. And, since you asked, yes, "Rara Avis" was a notable essay in Best American Essays 2009.

Superspouse traci also had a piece reviewed by The Review Review. Her "Fat Man's Daughter," published in The Pinch was written up, but the link is broken just now, so we'll post that another time.

"The Whale Song"

2010-07-01T21:45:00.000-04:00

If "King Rat" is decadent in its texture, "The Whale Song" is almost barren. (Both songs from "Nobody's First and You're Next.") Look at it. One line. What do I know about music? Very little, but it seems like the song is a series of instruments playing the same eight or ten notes in mostly the same order -- I could be all the way wrong about this -- but the thing is, it's a song that gets in my head and rides with me everywhere I go all day long. And I wish I were a scout so I could find a way out, but the way, so everyone could find a way out.

desperately seeking something

2010-07-01T21:39:00.000-04:00

Dear Client 958985SZ,

Thank you for your application. We wish you the best of luck in your search for "buddies and dear ones." We really like your photo:

And we love most of your print: "Athletic young person, interested in meeting friends and so forth. Wears a great hat well. Hip, shaggy hair, and I'm strikingly good looking with down-cast eyes and a great smile."

We also love your ad: "Looking for person(s) with whom to share brilliant insights into literature and good tv, as well as eat the delicious food I cook. Applicants should be friendly and compelling."

Here' the part where we had an issue:

"Must love Rubik's Cubes." Really 958985SZ, "Must love Rubik's Cubes." We just feel like perhaps you're asking too much. We mean, like, maybe "Must love crossword puzzles" or "Must love avocados" would give you more of a potential base. Anyway, we're not trying to tell you how to live your life, 958985SZ, but Rubik's Cubes? What is this like the 80s? Like the nerd 80s? Anyway, feel free to update your profile any time.

Best,
The Management.

my ship comes in

2010-07-01T12:03:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I received my first paycheck from a literary magazine. After ten years of writing, it's all starting to come together. At this rate, I will have my student loans paid off in just 16,534 years. In your face student loans.

"The Loop"

2010-06-30T11:56:00.001-04:00

Now, I know what you're saying, "This band doesn't look like any Modest Mouse I've ever heard of."

Well, it's true. "The Loop" is by Mimicking Birds, a band that opens for Modest Mouse and has their first album through Glacial Pace (http://www.glacialpace.com/). So the connection's there, see.

Their music is haunting -- give it a listen.

"Spitting Venom"

2010-06-29T11:36:00.000-04:00

A great song about the way we argue, right? Eight and a half minutes of a speaker asking a listener to just let it drop. "Well, we carried all the groceries in while hauling out the trash, and if this doesn't make us motionless, I do not know what can."

the author (antlered)

2010-06-28T12:09:00.000-04:00

My Uncle Dewey asked me one time, "What do you think you'd look like if you had antlers?"

I said, "I dunno. Maybe like this:"

He said, "Yeah, that's what I'd a thought, too."

dr. stick

2010-06-27T10:05:00.000-04:00

Every day since we've met, without fail, traci turns to me and says, "What's wrong with you?" Sometimes, it's because I'm running around Lowes with PVC hanging out of my pants. Sometimes, it's because I'm making monkey noises and picking bugs out of other spectators' hair at my kids' band recital. Sometimes, it's because I'm arguing with Sam for the third straight hour about Sudoku strategies. So after six-and-a-half years of "What's wrong with you?" I've decided to take stock, to evaluate, to try to get at the roots of what's wrong with me. I am, therefore, making a list of potential "issues" I might have.

What's wrong with me?

Well, for instance, this is my chiropractor:

This is a picture of me and him standing in the parking lot in front of his office, waiting for my appointment. The caption for the photo:

Jackson: "I don't know, Dr. Stick, I'd a guessed you'd need more brains to become a doctor."

Dr. Stick: "That's where you're wrong. Good doctoring comes from in here."

Jackson: "Inside your t-shirt?"

Dr. Stick: "Yes. Inside your t-shirt."

New Plumbing

2010-06-24T18:41:00.000-04:00

Anyway, this is what we ended up with:

We don't know what it is, but we couldn't have done it without you. Thank you, PVCman.

PVCman

2010-06-24T18:16:00.000-04:00

Tim Burton would do the artistic version:

"Edward PVCknuckles."

PVCman

2010-06-24T18:11:00.000-04:00

A rare photo of PVC man's alterego: me:

Apparently, I have a lot of fans I didn't know about:

PVCman making a funny line: "Let's shoot the shit," he says:

PVCman

2010-06-24T18:01:00.000-04:00

traci got some pics of PVCman in action:

Which leads me to my next point: traci and I have decided to quit work and focus on a series of movies about a guy who gets bitten by a radioactive turtle and falls into a PVC factory. The tagline, of course, would be, "He doesn't take shit . . . he gives it":

new plumbing

2010-06-24T17:51:00.000-04:00

Now, I know what you're thinking: "What does one do without plumbing?"

And I have an easy answer: "I have no idea."

We would have been in quite a bind . . .

. . . had it not been for PVCman.

cast iron

2010-06-24T17:39:00.001-04:00

Anyway, one thing lead to another, and we decided since we took the walls down, we might as well move the bathroom to the girls' room, the laundry to the bathroom, and the girls to a closet. In the meantime, we got a hold of a cast iron pipe and said to each other, "That's not modern. That's not modern at all."

We didn’t get pictures of the demolition, but you can imagine me with a BFH* and these enormous writerly hands pounding away on four-inch cast iron plumbing – truly a thing of beauty.

(BFH: Big Fill-in-the-_____ing Hammer)
After wailing away on the pipe for thirty, forty minutes with little progress, I pulled the old it-sure-is-fun-to-smash-cast-iron routine on Sam.

This is what he did to it:

Look ye mighty upon Sam's cast iron and beware. All that's from the second floor. We gutted the pipe from the basement through the roof -- it was quite a time.

2010-06-24T17:32:00.000-04:00

Okay, we started a minor remodel. traci and I thought the house would flow better if we replaced the walls in the girls' room, so we told them to replace their walls.

tech-savvy me

2010-06-24T16:49:00.000-04:00

Just so we’re clear on this: I didn’t know how to turn on traci’s camera this morning. And look at me now: importing pictures, uploading images, creating links. All of which suggests once again traci is quite possibly the greatest teacher of our generation. She has also taught me how to work the internet, the garbage disposal, and hair conditioner. (Those of you who knew me in the 90s can attest to these events as just-this-side-of-miraculous.)

"Sons of Perdition"

2010-06-24T15:46:00.000-04:00

Just happened to hear an old friend's voice on NPR this afternoon. Congratulations, Jennilyn, "Sons of Perdition" has become quite a hit. I only caught the last nine minutes of the broadcast, but it was nice to hear your voice.

For those of you who don't know the documentary yet, check it out.

"King Rat"

2010-06-24T15:41:00.000-04:00

Two days in a row? So early in the blog? Yes, it's true. "King Rat" gets inside you grey ice water and won't get out. "We swam like rats on fire right down to the resevoir" just like we always do. Also traci wanted me to add that decadent isn't necessarily a bad thing, which set me back a pace, because I'd never known it to be anything but good. "You know you know you know" . . . I've said it before . . . this song's got it all.

"King Rat"

2010-06-23T12:09:00.000-04:00

Maybe we all know the feeling: "We took all that we could carry, but we tried to carry more." traci says the texture in this song is decadent, by which I think she means there's a lot going on here. Yes, I'm on board. Also, I just like to look at things and say "Deep water, deep water, senseless denial." When I say it to Desi, she tilts her head clear to the side betraying her canine confusion. The cat ignores me. The plumbing seems to get it, through. As for the song, the cello, the horns, the stuff Isaac mumbles between verses -- it's all working for me.

two-beer lunch

2010-06-22T18:05:00.000-04:00

Dear Abbey,

(and by "Abbey" I mean "Whoever's reading this" and by "Dear" I mean "Hey, you"),

As you know Sam, Naomi, and Blaisey are in PA with Maga and Pappap. Just after traci finished teaching her class today (around 12:17 p.m.), she got a voice mail from them and their cousins, singing "Happy Birthday" to her. All of which reminded me quickly to make plans for her birthday, so I said, "Where do you want to go for lunch?"

She said, "I don't know, surprise me."

I said, "What would surprise you the most."

She said, "J!"

I "acted" dumb for a little while and we went to Mellow Mushroom for a two-beer lunch, which is why I'm writing today. I ordered the 10" The Ceasar!, which has "Olive Oil and Garlic base with Pesto Chicken, Provolone, Mozarella and Feta Cheeses, topped with a fresh Ceasar Salad and Roma Tomatoes" (taken from the above link) served with a delicious Ceasar dressing that I think is made in house, but I'm not sure. She got the humus, as we all know is mooshed up chick peas.

As for the two beers, traci had a couple of Wildflowers (a local Heffe) with an orange slice in each.

I on the other hand had three beers for the "two-beer lunch." I started off with a Blue Point Hoptical Illusion. Then I had two Foothills Hoppyums. And of course a Dogfish 90 Minute IPA to finish off the meal. My question to you all is: at what point does a pizza become a salad and vice versa?

Sincerly,
Dieting Or Pigging-Out in Greensboro

"Convenient Parking"

2010-06-22T09:28:00.001-04:00

Normally I wait until later in the day to decide what the song of the day has been, but since traci and I both woke up humming it, since we both whistled it during our morning walk, since we both sang it in the shower, it seems the natural choice. Seems like a good travelling song: "Off to other cities built to store and sell these rocks." If you've never listened to this particular album, welcome to the _Lonesome Crowded West_.