Now Playing: "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 6, "The King of the Golden Hall". (At least I think that's the name of the track--I'm not as good with TTT track names as with the other soundtracks.)
Well, I suppose I'd better find something to say on here. From tomorrow to Monday evening, I'll be gone with the rest of the CY to the youth retreat, so there won't be any posting during that time, and probably not any posting after it, either, at least for awhile.
On Monday, my father and I drove up to a city north of us. We took Mrs. P up to meet Mr. P there: she had been too ill to travel up with the rest of her family last weekend, so we were to take her halfway, to this city, and Mr. P would take her from that city the rest of the way. She chatted busily with us, refined, ladylike conversation. She and my father discussed churches, schools, the fates of their children, the antics of their pets.... I saw the sunset as a stained-glass window, shining saffron and scarlet, veined with the laced fingers of silhouetted cottonwood crowns.
We ate supper with Mr. and Mrs. P in a little diner, after having tried a KFC and a pizza joint, which were both closed, and a seafood restaurant, which was far too crowded. After supper, my father and I drove down to a bookstore on the highway. I browsed the fantasy section, more for the fun of seeing the familiar faces on the Lord of the Rings books. I looked at shelves of poetry, too, which was incredibly depressing. If that's what people think of when they think of poetry, I might as well lie down somewhere and die. Any attempt at writing something remotely resembling poetry seems so hopeless: it will either be latched onto by avante-gard, skull-wearing teenagers as great literature (if it contains profanity and pornography), or it will be labeled as doggerel by all and sundry (if it contains rhyme, rhythm, and anything verging on happiness). My father and I examined the C.S. Lewis section--thoughtful, intricate work, like strange mosaics. I eventually bought an elegantly-bound copy of Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur and a thick tome containing Sagas from Iceland. On the way home, we listened to Holst's "The Planets". I stared out the window at sheets of silver stars, like light sparkling on deep water. The Milky Way shimmered like the curve of a sail. I asked my father about their patterns, their orbits, their brightness. He said that you can see Venus at midday if you know where to look because she is so brilliant. When I glanced back out the window, a shooting star streaked across the western horizon.
On Tuesday, during lunch, we watched "The Shadow", an old superhero movie. The bit of Calvinism at the beginning (the man who becomes the Shadow starts out as a villain and is told that he "will be redeemed whether he wants to be or not") was intriguing. Violin and SwanElf came over Tuesday afternoon. The four of us (Daisy, too) spent an hour sprawled on my bed, laughing about old movies and joking about "Bob". Daisy had basketball practice, but Violin, SwanElf, and I went out for a walk. When we returned, the reek of garlic, onions, and chili powder made my eyes sting: my mother was stewing chili for supper.
All four of us slept in the study. We only stayed up till midnight. Daisy insisted that she and SwanElf switch places since Daisy had been lying by the door, and then got spooked. For awhile, Daisy gave humorous summaries of chick flicks she's watched at people's houses, with Violin and SwanElf adding in ridiculous comments.
Wednesday morning, Violin and I walked the Ps' dog, Lucy, for them. When we returned home, we found Daisy and SwanElf in the middle of making gingerbread cookies and listening to Chopin. We jumped in. SwanElf squealed when Violin spilled flour on her jeans, and Daisy made a face when Violin draped her sticky, floury hands around Daisy's neck, leaving long, white fingerprints on Daisy's mulberry sweater. I hastily gave Violin the job of greasing the cookie pan, while Daisy whipped eggwhites into powdered sugar for icing. Violin rolled out sheets of cinnamon-brown cookie dough, and laid crisp hearts, Jewish stars, and teddy bears on the cookie sheet.
Just before lunch, I drove Violin and SwanElf home. During lunch, we watched "Batman". My grandmother took the four of us kids out for ice cream. We spent a long, quiet evening at home. My father read Lieutenant Hornblower to us in the living room while Daisy cross-stitched a lighthouse, Brother2 played basketball with a little blue foam ball, and Brother1 pieced a puzzle he got for Christmas.
This morning I woke up from a horrible dream about Princess that left me feeling positively ill. After breakfast (and feeding Lucy, who had rocket shoes in her paws this morning, it seemed), my father and I drove to the drugstore, where a crisp clerk took my picture for a passport. Passport pictures always turn out hideously! Then we went to the county courthouse to file the application for a passport. The county courthouse looks imposing and classy on the outside, but inside it's all marble and dirty bronze--looks like a mausoleum to me.
My parents went out together for lunch. Brother1 was helping Mr. S cut brush out on his ranch--there's been an alert for brushfires recently. Daisy chose a "Three Stooges" episode for herself, Brother2, and me to watch during lunch. It was really ridiculous, but it was also a relief to be able to laugh--I've spent these past few days feeling like a metal beam with too much torque exerted on it.
Next door, they're cutting down two of my neighbor's pear trees. She has a stately row of pear trees in front of her house that burst into white bloom, like plumes of swan's feathers, in the spring. Now two of the trees are gone. The racket of the wood shredder was horrendous, as though the workmen were shredding pieces of brittle sky in their machine.
29 December 2005
26 December 2005
Psalm Sing, Christmas Day
Now Playing: "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" soundtrack, by Harry Gregson-Williams. Track 2, "Evacuating London". My father gave this CD to my mother for Christmas. This scene, where the Pevensies' mother tells them good-bye at the train station, is the one scene where my mother felt like crying, at least that's what she said. I like the clicky little song that plays while they're on the train. Princess suspects that the two children who share their compartment are the children of the young woman who played Susan on the BBC production (they have her last name, Cook, and they look a little like her).
Disclaimer: In this post I list all the Psalms we sang along with the families that requested them. In some cases, I have listed a specific person from a family as requesting a Psalm. These specifics are educated guesses, based either on seating order or on handwriting. As a result, they may not be entirely accurate. However, the families will always be accurate since I have my father's sheet on which the requests were made, by family.
Last night, at 7:00, my family hosted a Psalm sing at our house. The Ws came early, for supper. After supper, everyone pitched in to prepare for the Psalm sing. My father rinsed dishes, while I screwed the lids on the jelly jars and the salad dressing and put them away. While my mother finished up the dishes, she chatted with Mrs. W. They shooed me away when I reentered the kitchen: they said that they were talking "girl talk", and immediately began to discuss my sweater, until I turned tail and scuttled off, thinking, "I must not be a girl!", with a sparkle of laughter. My father and Brother1 arranged a conservative ring of chairs in the living room, heeding my mother's dour predictions that no one would come because they would all be too sleepy from their afternoon naps. Brother1 carried the two plastic tubs of toys down from the schoolroom and put them in the dining room, where the tables had been pushed to the sides of the room. Melissa teased Brother1 and asked if the toys were hers. "Have at it!" he replied. My mother set out the tea things beside an enticing collection of desserts in the dining room: fudge from Princess's family, a rainbow of cookies from the F family, and mints from the Ps. We sat around in the living room, waiting for people to arrive.
When people did come, it was all at once, just after seven: the entire C clan, a troop of Ss, and a zoo of Fs. Brother1 and I scrambled about, scrounging up more chairs. Princess, Marigold, SwanElf, Katie, and Beth ended up sitting on the hearth, while various little girls crowded onto the sofa, and Brother1 roosted on the piano bench. Mr. C and Mrs. C sat near me, and Emily, their new daughter, sat beside me, for a little while--until she spied the toys. Then Mrs. C carried her off to play with Fric, Frac, and Sis in the dining room. Dani and Mrs. C kept a careful eye on them throughout the Psalm Sing.
Everyone was talking and laughing so loudly that my parents, the leaders of the Psalm Sing, had a difficult time making themselves heard. They had seated themselves near me, at the head of the living room, with rather the air of a king and queen on a dais. My father gave us selections from "The Life of Christ" in the Psalms to sing first.
During one of the selections, I noticed Mr. C making strange hand signs to Brother1, who merely stared at him in confusion. My mother noticed it, too, and interpreted the signs to mean that Brother1 should turn on the lamp on the piano. Mr. C chuckled, because this was not what he'd meant. Watching with amusement, I saw that William, Mr. C's oldest son who was sitting in front of Brother1, had a baseball cap dragged down over his eyes. "Do you want Brother1 to take off William's hat?" I whispered to Mr. C. "Yes." So I succeeded in catching P's eyes and made more hand motions at him. He stared at me like a befuddled owl until I glared at him, and then he whipped off William's hat. He grinned at Mr. C.
After singing part of "The Life of Christ in the Psalms", we moved on to selections from the congregation. My father had passed around a sheet of paper with each family's name on it, and each member of a family wrote their selections under their family name. The Carrolls were first with 100A, stanzas as dependable and unchanging as Scottish hills. We sang 119X, courtesy of Ruth. The little children clattered happily behind me. Fric made her plastic men converse, while Emily carefully lined toy cars along the back wall.
We sang 39B, which seemed to jar a bit with the holiday mood. As my father said, though, it shows just how broad a range the Psalms have by reflecting not only holiday joy but also a time of spiritual drought and despair. We sang 80B (courtesy Princess's family), the stirring words a battlecry for God's justice. We sang 99C, courtesy Melissa's family. People constantly jumped up in the middle of a Psalm, or between Psalms, to grab styrofoam cups and moisten harsh throats. SwanElf, who'd gotten up to pour herself a drink, came and took Emily's vacant seat beside me. We sang alto together on 116A, which was requested by Brother2, but we were so loud that it rather drowned the sopranos. My father joked that 98A, which is a perennial favorite, had "dropped off the charts" and was "no longer going to be played on pop radio" because no one had requested it--quite unusual.
We sang 146B, thanks to the Cs. Then came 84A and B, the first courtesy of the F Family, the second from the Ws. SwanElf and I giggled together about how happy we were that we were going to sing these--and then burst out laughing because neither one of us had requested them. 84A dragged so sluggishly that my mother had to start presenting, marking the beats with one hand so that people would move more briskly. My father called everyone to stand up for 84B. SwanElf, Princess, Beth, and I perched on the hearth, joking to Mr. W, who was standing in front of us, about having "heavenly voices" pealing in his ear. "Advancing still from strength to strength!" we sang joyfully.
The Ss requested 125 next, and then, of course, one of the Carrolls chose 105D. Mrs. W teased Mr. C that it fit his personality: the tune is in a dismal minor key, and Mr. C is always half-seriously, half-jokingly complaining about the joyful celebration of birthdays and holidays. The tune kept creeping sharp, despite Mrs. F's and my mother's best efforts.
I was surprised and a bit disappointed when my father announced that 105D was the last Psalm.
After the Psalm Sing, Princess gave me my Christmas present: six sheets of pretty, pastel scrapbook paper and a sheet of vellum friendship stickers (which I've been wanting for some time). I said that I'd finished almost all the paper SwanElf had given me for my birthday, except for the two sheets on which was printed an elegant, dreamy seascape. "I can't find any pictures pretty enough to put on them," I complained. "Well, go find some prettier friends!" someone exclaimed, and we all laughed. SwanElf put her hands on my shoulders and bounced up and down enthusiastically, talking about the youth retreat next weekend. I helped Mr. F search for three missing Psalters--the inevitable difficulty at such gatherings, despite the fact that each family religiously labels their own Psalters.
After the Ws left, Violin, SwanElf, and Brother1 stood together, vigorously discussing Johnny Cash, while Princess and I stood and listened.
After everyone left, I chased Daisy upstairs for her bath. My parents and I cleaned up downstairs: wiping off the tables, sorting out the jungle of chairs, moving the tables back into place. "The Psalm Sing was wonderful! Thank you, A--," my mother said to my father. "It made my heart soar and my throat sore," she quipped.
"Can't close my eyes... they're wide awake..." sings Imogen Heap on the Narnia credits song. And that's how I was after my bath. Exhausted all day, wide awake at night, my mind busy with Psalms and stories and all the bright, strange, lovely things of daylight and half-light and starlight. "It couldn't be... anymore beautiful... I can't take it in...."
Disclaimer: In this post I list all the Psalms we sang along with the families that requested them. In some cases, I have listed a specific person from a family as requesting a Psalm. These specifics are educated guesses, based either on seating order or on handwriting. As a result, they may not be entirely accurate. However, the families will always be accurate since I have my father's sheet on which the requests were made, by family.
Last night, at 7:00, my family hosted a Psalm sing at our house. The Ws came early, for supper. After supper, everyone pitched in to prepare for the Psalm sing. My father rinsed dishes, while I screwed the lids on the jelly jars and the salad dressing and put them away. While my mother finished up the dishes, she chatted with Mrs. W. They shooed me away when I reentered the kitchen: they said that they were talking "girl talk", and immediately began to discuss my sweater, until I turned tail and scuttled off, thinking, "I must not be a girl!", with a sparkle of laughter. My father and Brother1 arranged a conservative ring of chairs in the living room, heeding my mother's dour predictions that no one would come because they would all be too sleepy from their afternoon naps. Brother1 carried the two plastic tubs of toys down from the schoolroom and put them in the dining room, where the tables had been pushed to the sides of the room. Melissa teased Brother1 and asked if the toys were hers. "Have at it!" he replied. My mother set out the tea things beside an enticing collection of desserts in the dining room: fudge from Princess's family, a rainbow of cookies from the F family, and mints from the Ps. We sat around in the living room, waiting for people to arrive.
When people did come, it was all at once, just after seven: the entire C clan, a troop of Ss, and a zoo of Fs. Brother1 and I scrambled about, scrounging up more chairs. Princess, Marigold, SwanElf, Katie, and Beth ended up sitting on the hearth, while various little girls crowded onto the sofa, and Brother1 roosted on the piano bench. Mr. C and Mrs. C sat near me, and Emily, their new daughter, sat beside me, for a little while--until she spied the toys. Then Mrs. C carried her off to play with Fric, Frac, and Sis in the dining room. Dani and Mrs. C kept a careful eye on them throughout the Psalm Sing.
Everyone was talking and laughing so loudly that my parents, the leaders of the Psalm Sing, had a difficult time making themselves heard. They had seated themselves near me, at the head of the living room, with rather the air of a king and queen on a dais. My father gave us selections from "The Life of Christ" in the Psalms to sing first.
During one of the selections, I noticed Mr. C making strange hand signs to Brother1, who merely stared at him in confusion. My mother noticed it, too, and interpreted the signs to mean that Brother1 should turn on the lamp on the piano. Mr. C chuckled, because this was not what he'd meant. Watching with amusement, I saw that William, Mr. C's oldest son who was sitting in front of Brother1, had a baseball cap dragged down over his eyes. "Do you want Brother1 to take off William's hat?" I whispered to Mr. C. "Yes." So I succeeded in catching P's eyes and made more hand motions at him. He stared at me like a befuddled owl until I glared at him, and then he whipped off William's hat. He grinned at Mr. C.
After singing part of "The Life of Christ in the Psalms", we moved on to selections from the congregation. My father had passed around a sheet of paper with each family's name on it, and each member of a family wrote their selections under their family name. The Carrolls were first with 100A, stanzas as dependable and unchanging as Scottish hills. We sang 119X, courtesy of Ruth. The little children clattered happily behind me. Fric made her plastic men converse, while Emily carefully lined toy cars along the back wall.
We sang 39B, which seemed to jar a bit with the holiday mood. As my father said, though, it shows just how broad a range the Psalms have by reflecting not only holiday joy but also a time of spiritual drought and despair. We sang 80B (courtesy Princess's family), the stirring words a battlecry for God's justice. We sang 99C, courtesy Melissa's family. People constantly jumped up in the middle of a Psalm, or between Psalms, to grab styrofoam cups and moisten harsh throats. SwanElf, who'd gotten up to pour herself a drink, came and took Emily's vacant seat beside me. We sang alto together on 116A, which was requested by Brother2, but we were so loud that it rather drowned the sopranos. My father joked that 98A, which is a perennial favorite, had "dropped off the charts" and was "no longer going to be played on pop radio" because no one had requested it--quite unusual.
We sang 146B, thanks to the Cs. Then came 84A and B, the first courtesy of the F Family, the second from the Ws. SwanElf and I giggled together about how happy we were that we were going to sing these--and then burst out laughing because neither one of us had requested them. 84A dragged so sluggishly that my mother had to start presenting, marking the beats with one hand so that people would move more briskly. My father called everyone to stand up for 84B. SwanElf, Princess, Beth, and I perched on the hearth, joking to Mr. W, who was standing in front of us, about having "heavenly voices" pealing in his ear. "Advancing still from strength to strength!" we sang joyfully.
The Ss requested 125 next, and then, of course, one of the Carrolls chose 105D. Mrs. W teased Mr. C that it fit his personality: the tune is in a dismal minor key, and Mr. C is always half-seriously, half-jokingly complaining about the joyful celebration of birthdays and holidays. The tune kept creeping sharp, despite Mrs. F's and my mother's best efforts.
I was surprised and a bit disappointed when my father announced that 105D was the last Psalm.
After the Psalm Sing, Princess gave me my Christmas present: six sheets of pretty, pastel scrapbook paper and a sheet of vellum friendship stickers (which I've been wanting for some time). I said that I'd finished almost all the paper SwanElf had given me for my birthday, except for the two sheets on which was printed an elegant, dreamy seascape. "I can't find any pictures pretty enough to put on them," I complained. "Well, go find some prettier friends!" someone exclaimed, and we all laughed. SwanElf put her hands on my shoulders and bounced up and down enthusiastically, talking about the youth retreat next weekend. I helped Mr. F search for three missing Psalters--the inevitable difficulty at such gatherings, despite the fact that each family religiously labels their own Psalters.
After the Ws left, Violin, SwanElf, and Brother1 stood together, vigorously discussing Johnny Cash, while Princess and I stood and listened.
After everyone left, I chased Daisy upstairs for her bath. My parents and I cleaned up downstairs: wiping off the tables, sorting out the jungle of chairs, moving the tables back into place. "The Psalm Sing was wonderful! Thank you, A--," my mother said to my father. "It made my heart soar and my throat sore," she quipped.
"Can't close my eyes... they're wide awake..." sings Imogen Heap on the Narnia credits song. And that's how I was after my bath. Exhausted all day, wide awake at night, my mind busy with Psalms and stories and all the bright, strange, lovely things of daylight and half-light and starlight. "It couldn't be... anymore beautiful... I can't take it in...."
23 December 2005
walking through a wood alone... wishing Tumnus would come along....
Now Playing: "The Village" soundtrack by James Newton Howard. Track 1, "Noah Visits".
This past week has been fairly quiet in some ways. I spent the days from Monday evening to Wednesday morning at a friends' house. She had invited me to the Christmas ball that her church sponsored. The ball was just contradancing: the Virginia Reel, the Fairfax Fancy, the Waves of Tory, and other such English, Irish, and American line dances.
Wednesday afternoon I spent with Mrs. Y. We talked the afternoon away: it's been a very long time since we've actually sat down and talked to one another, so we had a great deal to discuss. Raychel, her little daughter, surreptitiously spirited away the contents of her mother's purse, and Joseph, Mrs. Y's young son, contentedly grinned at me from his mother's arms. When Daisy asked me what we'd done all afternoon, and I told her, she rolled her eyes and muttered, "Adults!".
On Thursday, my mother, Daisy, and I went shopping for Christmas. We went to a used clothes store first, where my mother found a dress and a jumper, along with several sweaters, for Daisy. I found long-sleeved shirts and a black dress. The streets were busy, thick with cars as autumn fields swarming with starlings. In Wal-Mart, we met Mrs. P, who was shopping for her family. That afternoon, I went for a walk around San Born Lake by myself, to think. There are a great many things to be considered right now--hints that people have dropped, my friends' behavior, stories being worked on, classes next semester. Thin white clouds, like reflections of light on a blue satin dress, rippled across the sky.
Today my mother, Daisy, and I went grocery shopping. Of course, I would get lost looking for a CD for one of my brothers. It took me half-an-hour to reconnect with the other two. This afternoon I walked around the lake again. The colors were rich, though bleak: the lake a polished, unruffled sheet of grey; the junipers dark green; the cottonwoods and willows hovering like silver mist along the banks; ruddy grass staining the meadows between the trees, remnants of sunflowers, asters, goldenrod, coreopsis. A heron flapped low over the water, wings mirroring the darkening clouds above.
Yes, it must be admitted, "The Village" puts me in a sombre mood.
Here are nine ways you know it's Christmas in our household:
1. My mother digs out the decorations from the topmost cabinet in the laundryroom. Since she has vertigo, she makes Brother1 and me put them up for her: the evergreen swag across the doorway from the dining room to the living room, twined with lights and hung with a raucously-colored conglomeration of ornaments collected from various grandmothers, aunts, second cousins, and old friends.
2. In the process of retrieving the ornaments, my mother discovers the cloth gift bags she's used to wrap our presents in for the last ten years. They, along with our purchases from Thursday, mysteriously disappear into her bedroom. Only the bags reappear, curiously full, and piled like a heap of fat, sunning sea lions on the living room table.
3. Brother2 goes around with an angelic smile on his face, asking people sidling questions about their favorite CDs, calendars, etc., and when you ask him what he bought from Amazon, he only grins as broadly as Sandy when she's been well-fed.
4. Daisy develops a sudden, unquenchable interest in baking butter cookies, which she then feels compelled to smother in vanilla icing. Needless to say, they all look so stiffly beautiful that, when it comes to dessert time, everyone is too timid to actually eat one.
5. My father leaves for work late and comes home from work early. Of course, his extra time has to be spent in replacing the batteries in the broken garage door opener and helping me to buy textbooks for next semester--an expensive endeavor.
6. Christmas cards line up like lights along the fishline strung from one side of our chimney to the other. Cards from people I couldn't recognize if you paid me. A card from my old flute teacher with her husband and two children, which makes my mother say, "Oh! The boys are so big! A-- is already missing his two front teeth! He'll be grown up before I know it!"
7. Brother1 has to bike down the street to check on the Ys' house to make sure that everything is "hunky-dory" (as he says) with their crazy dog, Kitty, while they're gone.
8. And I lock myself in my room with "Adventures in Odyssey" to work on mysterious projects. The mysterious projects, of course, only boil down to a dozen scrapbook pages and two trashcans full of paper scraps.
9. The house reverberates to Handel's "Messiah" blasting from the old LP record player in the living room, and smells spicily of cinnamon and cloves boiling slowly on the stove.
This past week has been fairly quiet in some ways. I spent the days from Monday evening to Wednesday morning at a friends' house. She had invited me to the Christmas ball that her church sponsored. The ball was just contradancing: the Virginia Reel, the Fairfax Fancy, the Waves of Tory, and other such English, Irish, and American line dances.
Wednesday afternoon I spent with Mrs. Y. We talked the afternoon away: it's been a very long time since we've actually sat down and talked to one another, so we had a great deal to discuss. Raychel, her little daughter, surreptitiously spirited away the contents of her mother's purse, and Joseph, Mrs. Y's young son, contentedly grinned at me from his mother's arms. When Daisy asked me what we'd done all afternoon, and I told her, she rolled her eyes and muttered, "Adults!".
On Thursday, my mother, Daisy, and I went shopping for Christmas. We went to a used clothes store first, where my mother found a dress and a jumper, along with several sweaters, for Daisy. I found long-sleeved shirts and a black dress. The streets were busy, thick with cars as autumn fields swarming with starlings. In Wal-Mart, we met Mrs. P, who was shopping for her family. That afternoon, I went for a walk around San Born Lake by myself, to think. There are a great many things to be considered right now--hints that people have dropped, my friends' behavior, stories being worked on, classes next semester. Thin white clouds, like reflections of light on a blue satin dress, rippled across the sky.
Today my mother, Daisy, and I went grocery shopping. Of course, I would get lost looking for a CD for one of my brothers. It took me half-an-hour to reconnect with the other two. This afternoon I walked around the lake again. The colors were rich, though bleak: the lake a polished, unruffled sheet of grey; the junipers dark green; the cottonwoods and willows hovering like silver mist along the banks; ruddy grass staining the meadows between the trees, remnants of sunflowers, asters, goldenrod, coreopsis. A heron flapped low over the water, wings mirroring the darkening clouds above.
Yes, it must be admitted, "The Village" puts me in a sombre mood.
Here are nine ways you know it's Christmas in our household:
1. My mother digs out the decorations from the topmost cabinet in the laundryroom. Since she has vertigo, she makes Brother1 and me put them up for her: the evergreen swag across the doorway from the dining room to the living room, twined with lights and hung with a raucously-colored conglomeration of ornaments collected from various grandmothers, aunts, second cousins, and old friends.
2. In the process of retrieving the ornaments, my mother discovers the cloth gift bags she's used to wrap our presents in for the last ten years. They, along with our purchases from Thursday, mysteriously disappear into her bedroom. Only the bags reappear, curiously full, and piled like a heap of fat, sunning sea lions on the living room table.
3. Brother2 goes around with an angelic smile on his face, asking people sidling questions about their favorite CDs, calendars, etc., and when you ask him what he bought from Amazon, he only grins as broadly as Sandy when she's been well-fed.
4. Daisy develops a sudden, unquenchable interest in baking butter cookies, which she then feels compelled to smother in vanilla icing. Needless to say, they all look so stiffly beautiful that, when it comes to dessert time, everyone is too timid to actually eat one.
5. My father leaves for work late and comes home from work early. Of course, his extra time has to be spent in replacing the batteries in the broken garage door opener and helping me to buy textbooks for next semester--an expensive endeavor.
6. Christmas cards line up like lights along the fishline strung from one side of our chimney to the other. Cards from people I couldn't recognize if you paid me. A card from my old flute teacher with her husband and two children, which makes my mother say, "Oh! The boys are so big! A-- is already missing his two front teeth! He'll be grown up before I know it!"
7. Brother1 has to bike down the street to check on the Ys' house to make sure that everything is "hunky-dory" (as he says) with their crazy dog, Kitty, while they're gone.
8. And I lock myself in my room with "Adventures in Odyssey" to work on mysterious projects. The mysterious projects, of course, only boil down to a dozen scrapbook pages and two trashcans full of paper scraps.
9. The house reverberates to Handel's "Messiah" blasting from the old LP record player in the living room, and smells spicily of cinnamon and cloves boiling slowly on the stove.
19 December 2005
having fun upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber
Now Playing: Brother2, who's bouncing a foam ball against his bedroom door while he's supposed to be doing his schoolwork
This post concerns the CY game night held at Mr. and Mrs. Y's house last Saturday, December 17, from 7:00 to 10:00 in the evening. Here goes....
After supper, Ross and Brother1 drove down to the Ys' home, which is only a few houses down from ours. The Ys moved in last week. Ross and Brother1 took along a couple of pans of chocolate-chip-and-butterscotch cookies that I'd baked in a flurry before supper. Peter, Daisy, Andrew, Brother2, and I walked (or ran, as the case may be).
The party was already well underway when we arrived. Everyone was eating cookies and popcorn and lounging around in the den at the bottom floor of the Ys' house. Mrs. Y was busy trying to finish setting out all the food, so she gave Joseph, her baby son, to me to hold. I held him awkwardly on my hip while SwanElf teased me about holding him. I finally gave him to her to hold. She settled herself in an overstuffed rocking chair with a placid smile on her face and the baby cuddled against her chest. People were still arriving. I gave Meri her birthday present: she turned seventeen today! She and Princess watched the fun from the stairs until Mr. Y organized us into two games: a game of Taboo, in the den, and a game of balderdash in the living room. Mr. Y handed children's books to everyone to use as writing desks. Marigold, Meri, Daisy, and Betty busily flipped through the Disney retellings of fairy tales, giggling the while. Sadly, the Ys couldn't locate their dictionary, so Daisy had to run back to our house to pick up the second volume of our weighty Webster's set (the second volume because the X, Y, and Z words are all the most interesting ones in the dictionary, of course). Until she returned, Peter used the Ys' little Roget's dictionary/thesaurus. The first word he picked was "fortuitous". Ross, Henry, and I all knew what it meant. Ross and Henry wrote down fake definitions, but I sat and looked sheepish, refusing to write down anything, while everyone made fun of me for knowing the word. "You're an English major! You know everything!" was the oft-repeated refrain. Ross read books to Raychel, the Ys' almost two-year-old daughter.
Eventually, I picked myself up and went down to the den to join Taboo, which was just getting started after a hunt to retrieve the Taboo set from a box. Boromir sat on the stairs and watched, munching peanut butter popcorn. The boys (Mr. Y, Ross, Brother1, Daniel) were on one team, and the girls (Violin, SwanElf, Hannah, and I) were on the other team. We had a delightfully uproarious game. Ross had been rather taciturn the whole time my cousins had been here, but he became quite jovial as the night progressed. Violin and SwanElf made fun of the boys' attempts to win the game. Someone decreed that the "hot seat" for the girls' team was a leather-upholstered rocking chair, while the "hot seat" for the boys' team was a sway-backed, orange sofa. Violin perched on the sofa's arm with the "buzzer" (which Mr. Y pretended to use as a razor, as a joke) to buzz the boys' reader whenever he said a taboo word. The tactics used by the reader to get his or her teammates to guess the word were quite hilarious. Ross used "the thing on the flag that the weirdos carry in the student parade" to try to get people to guess "rainbow" (the emblem of the Diversity Tribe). He also used Beevo, the emblem of the college that rivals his, to get people to guess "steer"--fortuitously for him, Brother1 recognized the name, though no one else in the room except the three of us knew what it meant. I tried to use it myself later on "meatloaf", but none of the girls had caught the reference from earlier. Mrs. Y sat and watched. Shadow crouched next to Raychel on the stairs, observing the fun. Raychel assiduously munched a bag full of potato chips, scattering fragments, Gretel-like, wherever she went.
Meanwhile, Shadow and his siblings arrived. He and his brother set up a Nintendo game set on the Ys’ television across the den from our Taboo game. Daniel and Boromir were soon glued to the TV. After the girls' Taboo team beat the boys' team, Ruth, Marigold, Peter, and Shadow joined us for another round, in which the other team (Violin, SwanElf, Ross, Brother1, etc.) won. I prowled upstairs to see what was going on in the living room. Princess and Marigold had brought out Cranium, and everyone was laughing and sitting around a blue card table. Brioni hovered nearby, holding Joseph, and smiling shyly at the fun.
Back downstairs, I slouched on the orange couch. The noise and laughter was becoming rather too much for me. Though Taboo and Cranium are not noisy games, everyone was so excited that they were all shouting. Mrs. Y rocked placidly in the midst of it all. Raychel clambered up onto the sofa beside me, dragging behind her a little plastic toy eggbeater, with one of Mrs. Y's old blue hats jammed onto her head. When Raychel discovered that if she drilled the eggbeater on my hand, I made a horrific howling sound, she grinned broadly. She drilled my hand for awhile, then my hair, and up and down my arms, chuckling evilly as I howled in mock pain. "Do you just enjoy hurting people?" I whimpered. "Yes," she lisped nonchalantly. She yanked the blue hat down over my eyes and drilled the eggbeater on my head, which made me hoot in pretend agony. Brother2, watching the Nintendo games, bounced up and down on a huge purple exercise ball and read "Fox in Socks" out loud to anyone who would listen. The ridiculous Dr. Seuss rhymes, and the crazy animals that looked as though they'd stepped out of a three-year-old's scribblings, mirrored the carefree, barely-contained joviality of the evening.
The Taboo game evaporated after awhile, as did the game of Cranium. In the living room, Brother1 and Meri organized a game of Mafia. Violin sat beside Mrs. Y in the den and gave her a long, complicated description of children's speech development patterns. Like Fric, she thinks with her hands--she used rapid gestures to supplement her "lecture". Raychel, the blue hat bobbing against her eyebrows, played with Ruth.
It was getting late. Mrs. Y took the little ones upstairs to bed, and Mr. Y sat on the stairs, guarding the bedrooms. Meri and Brother1 put together a game of sardines. Brother2 bounced his fist over outstretched hands as he counted, "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers, let him go, eeny, meeny, miney, mo; my mother told me to choose the very best one and you are it!" Boromir was the first one chosen to hide. Mr. and Mrs. Y courteously turned off most of the lights in the house. Princess, Marigold, Hannah, Violin, SwanElf, and Ruth had to leave, and for awhile the entry area was a mess as Marigold tried to find her missing shoe from the sea of shoes stacked by the door. I waved them off, my breath hanging mistily in the dank air, shimmering like chain-mail mesh.
When I stepped indoors, I heard a great deal of giggling emanating from the guest room, just off the entry area. I stepped inside and found that everyone was jammed into the closet, including Boromir, who, suiting his small stature, had wedged himself on one of the shelves. Peter was the first to find him (my cousins are experts at hiding on shelves--when we play sardines in their house, shelves and cabinets are always the first places to be checked because that's where they hide--you even have to fumble along the topmost shelves of the closet, because Peter and Andrew can climb like monkeys), so Peter was the next to hide. Everyone gathered in the den and stood around, counting loudly, while Peter hid. Then we all separated to look for him. Estella and I groped into the Ys' garage and poked around inside the car. Henry checked the laundry room. Sam and Boromir looked under the computer desk in the study, while Brioni wandered around, smiling mysteriously and giving us the hint that "Whoever hid wasn't very original." It didn't take me long to figure out where Peter must've gone: back to the closet. I crouched in the corner behind the door. Pretty soon, everyone else except Henry had secreted themselves in some nook or cranny of the guest bedroom. We waited and waited, huffing and giggling in the dark. My legs grew cramped. Brother1, lurking in the wardrobe, finally shouted, "Henry! We're NOT in the guest bedroom! Nope! There's no one in here!". We all laughed loudly, which, of course, produced the desired effect: Henry appeared, blinking at us blankly as we streamed past him to the den. Meri was the next to hide. Estella and I looked everywhere for her. I couldn't figure out why all the boys were hanging around Mr. Y's computer: Ross was even sitting in the chair, messing with the screensaver. At last, they started to laugh at us, and we realized that Meri was hiding under the desk.
"Ok, guys! Load up! Time to go home!" I declared. "Oh, just one more round!" Ross begged, but I insisted. I hated to leave the Ys' new house in such a mess, but considering that all the lights were off and that Mrs. Y seemed to be in bed, there wasn't much use in fishing around for the vacuum cleaner. I sent Peter, Andrew, Daisy, and Brother2 scuttling down the street, while Brother1 and Ross drove. I realized that the knife that had gone with the cookies could be missing, so I ran back to see if I could find it. Meri, Estella, Betty, Sam, and Boromir were having their midnight snack in the dining room--leftover sandwiches and chips. I sprinted home, my shadow wavering on blue mist as a passing car's headlights illuminated the foggy night.
This post concerns the CY game night held at Mr. and Mrs. Y's house last Saturday, December 17, from 7:00 to 10:00 in the evening. Here goes....
After supper, Ross and Brother1 drove down to the Ys' home, which is only a few houses down from ours. The Ys moved in last week. Ross and Brother1 took along a couple of pans of chocolate-chip-and-butterscotch cookies that I'd baked in a flurry before supper. Peter, Daisy, Andrew, Brother2, and I walked (or ran, as the case may be).
The party was already well underway when we arrived. Everyone was eating cookies and popcorn and lounging around in the den at the bottom floor of the Ys' house. Mrs. Y was busy trying to finish setting out all the food, so she gave Joseph, her baby son, to me to hold. I held him awkwardly on my hip while SwanElf teased me about holding him. I finally gave him to her to hold. She settled herself in an overstuffed rocking chair with a placid smile on her face and the baby cuddled against her chest. People were still arriving. I gave Meri her birthday present: she turned seventeen today! She and Princess watched the fun from the stairs until Mr. Y organized us into two games: a game of Taboo, in the den, and a game of balderdash in the living room. Mr. Y handed children's books to everyone to use as writing desks. Marigold, Meri, Daisy, and Betty busily flipped through the Disney retellings of fairy tales, giggling the while. Sadly, the Ys couldn't locate their dictionary, so Daisy had to run back to our house to pick up the second volume of our weighty Webster's set (the second volume because the X, Y, and Z words are all the most interesting ones in the dictionary, of course). Until she returned, Peter used the Ys' little Roget's dictionary/thesaurus. The first word he picked was "fortuitous". Ross, Henry, and I all knew what it meant. Ross and Henry wrote down fake definitions, but I sat and looked sheepish, refusing to write down anything, while everyone made fun of me for knowing the word. "You're an English major! You know everything!" was the oft-repeated refrain. Ross read books to Raychel, the Ys' almost two-year-old daughter.
Eventually, I picked myself up and went down to the den to join Taboo, which was just getting started after a hunt to retrieve the Taboo set from a box. Boromir sat on the stairs and watched, munching peanut butter popcorn. The boys (Mr. Y, Ross, Brother1, Daniel) were on one team, and the girls (Violin, SwanElf, Hannah, and I) were on the other team. We had a delightfully uproarious game. Ross had been rather taciturn the whole time my cousins had been here, but he became quite jovial as the night progressed. Violin and SwanElf made fun of the boys' attempts to win the game. Someone decreed that the "hot seat" for the girls' team was a leather-upholstered rocking chair, while the "hot seat" for the boys' team was a sway-backed, orange sofa. Violin perched on the sofa's arm with the "buzzer" (which Mr. Y pretended to use as a razor, as a joke) to buzz the boys' reader whenever he said a taboo word. The tactics used by the reader to get his or her teammates to guess the word were quite hilarious. Ross used "the thing on the flag that the weirdos carry in the student parade" to try to get people to guess "rainbow" (the emblem of the Diversity Tribe). He also used Beevo, the emblem of the college that rivals his, to get people to guess "steer"--fortuitously for him, Brother1 recognized the name, though no one else in the room except the three of us knew what it meant. I tried to use it myself later on "meatloaf", but none of the girls had caught the reference from earlier. Mrs. Y sat and watched. Shadow crouched next to Raychel on the stairs, observing the fun. Raychel assiduously munched a bag full of potato chips, scattering fragments, Gretel-like, wherever she went.
Meanwhile, Shadow and his siblings arrived. He and his brother set up a Nintendo game set on the Ys’ television across the den from our Taboo game. Daniel and Boromir were soon glued to the TV. After the girls' Taboo team beat the boys' team, Ruth, Marigold, Peter, and Shadow joined us for another round, in which the other team (Violin, SwanElf, Ross, Brother1, etc.) won. I prowled upstairs to see what was going on in the living room. Princess and Marigold had brought out Cranium, and everyone was laughing and sitting around a blue card table. Brioni hovered nearby, holding Joseph, and smiling shyly at the fun.
Back downstairs, I slouched on the orange couch. The noise and laughter was becoming rather too much for me. Though Taboo and Cranium are not noisy games, everyone was so excited that they were all shouting. Mrs. Y rocked placidly in the midst of it all. Raychel clambered up onto the sofa beside me, dragging behind her a little plastic toy eggbeater, with one of Mrs. Y's old blue hats jammed onto her head. When Raychel discovered that if she drilled the eggbeater on my hand, I made a horrific howling sound, she grinned broadly. She drilled my hand for awhile, then my hair, and up and down my arms, chuckling evilly as I howled in mock pain. "Do you just enjoy hurting people?" I whimpered. "Yes," she lisped nonchalantly. She yanked the blue hat down over my eyes and drilled the eggbeater on my head, which made me hoot in pretend agony. Brother2, watching the Nintendo games, bounced up and down on a huge purple exercise ball and read "Fox in Socks" out loud to anyone who would listen. The ridiculous Dr. Seuss rhymes, and the crazy animals that looked as though they'd stepped out of a three-year-old's scribblings, mirrored the carefree, barely-contained joviality of the evening.
The Taboo game evaporated after awhile, as did the game of Cranium. In the living room, Brother1 and Meri organized a game of Mafia. Violin sat beside Mrs. Y in the den and gave her a long, complicated description of children's speech development patterns. Like Fric, she thinks with her hands--she used rapid gestures to supplement her "lecture". Raychel, the blue hat bobbing against her eyebrows, played with Ruth.
It was getting late. Mrs. Y took the little ones upstairs to bed, and Mr. Y sat on the stairs, guarding the bedrooms. Meri and Brother1 put together a game of sardines. Brother2 bounced his fist over outstretched hands as he counted, "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers, let him go, eeny, meeny, miney, mo; my mother told me to choose the very best one and you are it!" Boromir was the first one chosen to hide. Mr. and Mrs. Y courteously turned off most of the lights in the house. Princess, Marigold, Hannah, Violin, SwanElf, and Ruth had to leave, and for awhile the entry area was a mess as Marigold tried to find her missing shoe from the sea of shoes stacked by the door. I waved them off, my breath hanging mistily in the dank air, shimmering like chain-mail mesh.
When I stepped indoors, I heard a great deal of giggling emanating from the guest room, just off the entry area. I stepped inside and found that everyone was jammed into the closet, including Boromir, who, suiting his small stature, had wedged himself on one of the shelves. Peter was the first to find him (my cousins are experts at hiding on shelves--when we play sardines in their house, shelves and cabinets are always the first places to be checked because that's where they hide--you even have to fumble along the topmost shelves of the closet, because Peter and Andrew can climb like monkeys), so Peter was the next to hide. Everyone gathered in the den and stood around, counting loudly, while Peter hid. Then we all separated to look for him. Estella and I groped into the Ys' garage and poked around inside the car. Henry checked the laundry room. Sam and Boromir looked under the computer desk in the study, while Brioni wandered around, smiling mysteriously and giving us the hint that "Whoever hid wasn't very original." It didn't take me long to figure out where Peter must've gone: back to the closet. I crouched in the corner behind the door. Pretty soon, everyone else except Henry had secreted themselves in some nook or cranny of the guest bedroom. We waited and waited, huffing and giggling in the dark. My legs grew cramped. Brother1, lurking in the wardrobe, finally shouted, "Henry! We're NOT in the guest bedroom! Nope! There's no one in here!". We all laughed loudly, which, of course, produced the desired effect: Henry appeared, blinking at us blankly as we streamed past him to the den. Meri was the next to hide. Estella and I looked everywhere for her. I couldn't figure out why all the boys were hanging around Mr. Y's computer: Ross was even sitting in the chair, messing with the screensaver. At last, they started to laugh at us, and we realized that Meri was hiding under the desk.
"Ok, guys! Load up! Time to go home!" I declared. "Oh, just one more round!" Ross begged, but I insisted. I hated to leave the Ys' new house in such a mess, but considering that all the lights were off and that Mrs. Y seemed to be in bed, there wasn't much use in fishing around for the vacuum cleaner. I sent Peter, Andrew, Daisy, and Brother2 scuttling down the street, while Brother1 and Ross drove. I realized that the knife that had gone with the cookies could be missing, so I ran back to see if I could find it. Meri, Estella, Betty, Sam, and Boromir were having their midnight snack in the dining room--leftover sandwiches and chips. I sprinted home, my shadow wavering on blue mist as a passing car's headlights illuminated the foggy night.
17 December 2005
They're after us!
Now playing: cousins, cousins, and more cousins
This morning my father went to the grocery store and bought two big boxes of donuts--one with chocolate frosting, and one with glaze. I ate a chocolate donut, and half of Lillian's chocolate donut, which she didn't want. When I went out to check the cats, Mandy was particularly friendly and began to purr as soon as I picked her up: she hadn't been fed. She decided to lick my ears as bribery.
Brother2 had a basketball game this morning, to which my parents, Brother1, and Uncle Kirk went. The boy cousins were all too interested in playing computer games and blowing up robots upstairs. Aunt Lisa had just gone running, and so needed a shower. She agreed to stay home with the boys and Mary, while Daisy dragged me, Lillian, and Annalee over to San Born Lake. We made quite an expedition: Annalee with her coat hood dragged down over her curls; Daisy and Lillian with their snow hats pulled down to their eyebrows and the pompoms at the tops of the hats wagging ridiculously, and me striding rather grouchily (at first) at the train of the procession.
Daisy led us on a long rabbit trail, down a sandstone path between juniper trees, across a meadow, and through a thicket of mulberry trees, their trunks writhen and spotted with green lichen. We ploughed through a glade, scrambled through some trees, and came out on a gravel road leading toward the lake. I spotted a horseapple tree near the road. We trooped over to inspect it. Horseapples (also known as Osage oranges) were sprinkled in the ditch under the tree. The three girls picked them up, inspected them, sniffed them ("Ew! Smells gross!" exclaimed Daisy; "Smells like a grapefruit," said Lillian), and stuffed them into their pockets, handling them clumsily because of their oversized gloves. "It's squishy!" said Daisy. "Probably bad," I said, and picked one up. "Feels like a brain," I commented. "Ooooh," giggled all the girls. "Feels like a dog brain!" chortled Daisy. "Yep. Dog brain, dog brain," said Lillian cheerfully. "Maybe a bunch of dogs lost their brains here," said Daisy, "maybe that's why they're so dumb." Annalee laughed.
Having filled their pockets with horseapples, they continued on their way, with me following. We jumped a fence and walked across a closely-mown lawn. We poked our heads inside an old shack and found a little path running into the woods. Suddenly, just as we started onto the trail around the lake itself, Daisy realized that she'd lost the walkie-talkie that we'd brought along (one walkie-talkie with the expedition, one with Aunt Lisa at home). We hurried back, searching the ground carefully. I found it where we'd jumped the fence. Annalee insisted on calling Aunt Lisa. When I told Aunt Lisa that we were alright, she said, "That's appreciated," in her dry way.
As we returned to the path in the woods, I poked my head out of a thicket. "Look out," I said. "There's spies over there. We have to hide from them." The little girls hastened up beside me and peered over my shoulder. "What?" asked Lillian. "Spies. We have to hide. Let's wait until they're on the other side of that building," I replied, "and then we'll run for it." There were four or five unsuspecting adults strolling about near the lake, close to an old house that people rent and use for parties occasionally. They sauntered towards the house. As soon as they were out of sight, I took of running, with the three girls skeining out behind me. We sprinted down the path, over a little rise, and were soon buried in a maze of trails and walkways running through the woods. Dangling honeysuckle ropes brushed our shoulders as we crossed a creek. We poked around by a pond upstream from the lake, separated from it by a very tall dam.
Further on, we came to a place where there was a stream. Beavers had dammed up the stream years ago, and though last summer the water finally cut a channel through the dam, there were still broad, muddy flats behind the dam where the water had once been. We found deer prints in the mud. We bounced on a fallen elm tree, its limbs creaking like arthritic joints, as though we were playing "horsie" with a grandfather. We followed the creek as it flowed through fairly open ground. At one point, under a clump of junipers, we found a good hideout. The floor was drifted, soft and deep, with silvery bermuda grass, like baby's hair. We curled up there and rested since Annalee's short legs were getting tired. After awhile, we continued on, hopping from sandstone rock to rock. The boulders shifted and slid, clinking like broken glass, under our feet. Annalee sat down on one of the red boulders to rest, watching Lillian and Daisy as they poked about in the mud by the creek. In one place there was a thin skim of ice on the brown water. Black fish, like slimy leaves, flickered in fear as I poked a hole through the ice and pushed it about on the tip of a long stick. Sluggish water sloshed to and fro as the ice rose and fell. We brushed through tall stands of ruddy grass, like Roman candles. Fluffy, cream-pale seed pods drifted down the breeze and caught on Lillian's teal snowhat. Baby's breath tinkled, like little bells, and last autumn's asters shattered like falling stars at the touch of a hand. Daisy held tangled skeins of wild rose bush aside for us as we crossed the creek and returned to the path.
Back on the path, Daisy and Lillian found a branch from a juniper tree that had been lopped off by some careless person. Annalee and I went in front, while they brought up the rear, dragging the branch to erase our footprints so that "they" couldn't follow us. As a helicopter buzzed in the distance, we hid in a thicket of juniper trees, crouching like hunted animals and whispering excitedly. A flock of sparrows, startled, leaped from the cattails by the creek. The roar of their wings made us jump. "You know," whispered Annalee, "they could've attached cameras to those birds." "You're right!" I said. "Let's hurry."
Geese paddled serenely on the lake, like brown lichen on a smooth, dark grey boulder. We hurried down a curving path and scrambled up a steep slope. Our feet slid on rocks that crumbled into red and yellow dust as we crushed them. Racing into a ravine, we climbed into a hollow and huddled near a dead cactus while the helicopter growled in the distance and a jet roared past overhead. Once the two noises had diminished, we raced across a broad meadow. Our feet pummeled the springy grass. Dead sunflowers rattled in a thin east wind. We debated for awhile about which way to go: south, over the dam and through the back properties of our neighborhood, or southeast, through the neighborhood itself. We finally decided (with the help of my conscience, which said that my mother wouldn't appreciate it if we took the back way) to go on the street and try to "blend in". Annalee was decidedly lagging behind by now.
To keep the spies from recognizing us, we pulled our hats and hoods low over our eyes and started off down the street. I balanced my long stick on my shoulder, shortening my steps to stroll beside Annalee, while Lillian and Daisy shuffled their feet through drifts of leaves. We cast suspicious glances at any car that passed, and when a door slammed shut behind us, Daisy jumped. To keep the spies from knowing where we lived, we walked up the easment and entered our yard through the back gate. We tracked leaves and clotted clay from our shoes onto the dining room floor as we trooped inside. Daisy immediately began to fix hot chocolate for anyone and everyone, while Lillian and Annalee prowled around, and Aunt Lisa finished off the hat she'd been knitting. Lillian proudly showed Aunt Lisa her horseapple, which made Aunt Lisa stare rather ruefully. Mary smiled her sunny, squinched-eyes smile at me as I flopped down on the sofa with a magazine. I chatted with Violin on the phone for a little bit. Her squirrely siblings were chattering in the background at her house, and my own squirrely relations were making the dining room quite a zoo on my end of the line.
When Brothers 1 and 2 returned with my parents and Uncle Kirk, my parents set to making lunch. When Uncle Kirk heard about the horseapples, he chuckled loudly, especially when Aunt Lisa told him that Lillian had told her, "They feel like brains!" "Is that any reason for bringing them home?" Aunt Lisa inquired.
I can smell burned cheesemelts from the dining room where my mother and Aunt Lisa are talking. Uncle Kirk stumps down the stairs. Mary babbles, "Jingle bells, jingle bells" in the living room, and the boys growl upstairs at their computer game. Andrew squeals--Ross probably just jumped on him. The little girls thump around in their room over my head, probably trying to rearrange the sleeping quarters. "Food!" shouts Aunt Lisa. It's lunchtime.
This morning my father went to the grocery store and bought two big boxes of donuts--one with chocolate frosting, and one with glaze. I ate a chocolate donut, and half of Lillian's chocolate donut, which she didn't want. When I went out to check the cats, Mandy was particularly friendly and began to purr as soon as I picked her up: she hadn't been fed. She decided to lick my ears as bribery.
Brother2 had a basketball game this morning, to which my parents, Brother1, and Uncle Kirk went. The boy cousins were all too interested in playing computer games and blowing up robots upstairs. Aunt Lisa had just gone running, and so needed a shower. She agreed to stay home with the boys and Mary, while Daisy dragged me, Lillian, and Annalee over to San Born Lake. We made quite an expedition: Annalee with her coat hood dragged down over her curls; Daisy and Lillian with their snow hats pulled down to their eyebrows and the pompoms at the tops of the hats wagging ridiculously, and me striding rather grouchily (at first) at the train of the procession.
Daisy led us on a long rabbit trail, down a sandstone path between juniper trees, across a meadow, and through a thicket of mulberry trees, their trunks writhen and spotted with green lichen. We ploughed through a glade, scrambled through some trees, and came out on a gravel road leading toward the lake. I spotted a horseapple tree near the road. We trooped over to inspect it. Horseapples (also known as Osage oranges) were sprinkled in the ditch under the tree. The three girls picked them up, inspected them, sniffed them ("Ew! Smells gross!" exclaimed Daisy; "Smells like a grapefruit," said Lillian), and stuffed them into their pockets, handling them clumsily because of their oversized gloves. "It's squishy!" said Daisy. "Probably bad," I said, and picked one up. "Feels like a brain," I commented. "Ooooh," giggled all the girls. "Feels like a dog brain!" chortled Daisy. "Yep. Dog brain, dog brain," said Lillian cheerfully. "Maybe a bunch of dogs lost their brains here," said Daisy, "maybe that's why they're so dumb." Annalee laughed.
Having filled their pockets with horseapples, they continued on their way, with me following. We jumped a fence and walked across a closely-mown lawn. We poked our heads inside an old shack and found a little path running into the woods. Suddenly, just as we started onto the trail around the lake itself, Daisy realized that she'd lost the walkie-talkie that we'd brought along (one walkie-talkie with the expedition, one with Aunt Lisa at home). We hurried back, searching the ground carefully. I found it where we'd jumped the fence. Annalee insisted on calling Aunt Lisa. When I told Aunt Lisa that we were alright, she said, "That's appreciated," in her dry way.
As we returned to the path in the woods, I poked my head out of a thicket. "Look out," I said. "There's spies over there. We have to hide from them." The little girls hastened up beside me and peered over my shoulder. "What?" asked Lillian. "Spies. We have to hide. Let's wait until they're on the other side of that building," I replied, "and then we'll run for it." There were four or five unsuspecting adults strolling about near the lake, close to an old house that people rent and use for parties occasionally. They sauntered towards the house. As soon as they were out of sight, I took of running, with the three girls skeining out behind me. We sprinted down the path, over a little rise, and were soon buried in a maze of trails and walkways running through the woods. Dangling honeysuckle ropes brushed our shoulders as we crossed a creek. We poked around by a pond upstream from the lake, separated from it by a very tall dam.
Further on, we came to a place where there was a stream. Beavers had dammed up the stream years ago, and though last summer the water finally cut a channel through the dam, there were still broad, muddy flats behind the dam where the water had once been. We found deer prints in the mud. We bounced on a fallen elm tree, its limbs creaking like arthritic joints, as though we were playing "horsie" with a grandfather. We followed the creek as it flowed through fairly open ground. At one point, under a clump of junipers, we found a good hideout. The floor was drifted, soft and deep, with silvery bermuda grass, like baby's hair. We curled up there and rested since Annalee's short legs were getting tired. After awhile, we continued on, hopping from sandstone rock to rock. The boulders shifted and slid, clinking like broken glass, under our feet. Annalee sat down on one of the red boulders to rest, watching Lillian and Daisy as they poked about in the mud by the creek. In one place there was a thin skim of ice on the brown water. Black fish, like slimy leaves, flickered in fear as I poked a hole through the ice and pushed it about on the tip of a long stick. Sluggish water sloshed to and fro as the ice rose and fell. We brushed through tall stands of ruddy grass, like Roman candles. Fluffy, cream-pale seed pods drifted down the breeze and caught on Lillian's teal snowhat. Baby's breath tinkled, like little bells, and last autumn's asters shattered like falling stars at the touch of a hand. Daisy held tangled skeins of wild rose bush aside for us as we crossed the creek and returned to the path.
Back on the path, Daisy and Lillian found a branch from a juniper tree that had been lopped off by some careless person. Annalee and I went in front, while they brought up the rear, dragging the branch to erase our footprints so that "they" couldn't follow us. As a helicopter buzzed in the distance, we hid in a thicket of juniper trees, crouching like hunted animals and whispering excitedly. A flock of sparrows, startled, leaped from the cattails by the creek. The roar of their wings made us jump. "You know," whispered Annalee, "they could've attached cameras to those birds." "You're right!" I said. "Let's hurry."
Geese paddled serenely on the lake, like brown lichen on a smooth, dark grey boulder. We hurried down a curving path and scrambled up a steep slope. Our feet slid on rocks that crumbled into red and yellow dust as we crushed them. Racing into a ravine, we climbed into a hollow and huddled near a dead cactus while the helicopter growled in the distance and a jet roared past overhead. Once the two noises had diminished, we raced across a broad meadow. Our feet pummeled the springy grass. Dead sunflowers rattled in a thin east wind. We debated for awhile about which way to go: south, over the dam and through the back properties of our neighborhood, or southeast, through the neighborhood itself. We finally decided (with the help of my conscience, which said that my mother wouldn't appreciate it if we took the back way) to go on the street and try to "blend in". Annalee was decidedly lagging behind by now.
To keep the spies from recognizing us, we pulled our hats and hoods low over our eyes and started off down the street. I balanced my long stick on my shoulder, shortening my steps to stroll beside Annalee, while Lillian and Daisy shuffled their feet through drifts of leaves. We cast suspicious glances at any car that passed, and when a door slammed shut behind us, Daisy jumped. To keep the spies from knowing where we lived, we walked up the easment and entered our yard through the back gate. We tracked leaves and clotted clay from our shoes onto the dining room floor as we trooped inside. Daisy immediately began to fix hot chocolate for anyone and everyone, while Lillian and Annalee prowled around, and Aunt Lisa finished off the hat she'd been knitting. Lillian proudly showed Aunt Lisa her horseapple, which made Aunt Lisa stare rather ruefully. Mary smiled her sunny, squinched-eyes smile at me as I flopped down on the sofa with a magazine. I chatted with Violin on the phone for a little bit. Her squirrely siblings were chattering in the background at her house, and my own squirrely relations were making the dining room quite a zoo on my end of the line.
When Brothers 1 and 2 returned with my parents and Uncle Kirk, my parents set to making lunch. When Uncle Kirk heard about the horseapples, he chuckled loudly, especially when Aunt Lisa told him that Lillian had told her, "They feel like brains!" "Is that any reason for bringing them home?" Aunt Lisa inquired.
I can smell burned cheesemelts from the dining room where my mother and Aunt Lisa are talking. Uncle Kirk stumps down the stairs. Mary babbles, "Jingle bells, jingle bells" in the living room, and the boys growl upstairs at their computer game. Andrew squeals--Ross probably just jumped on him. The little girls thump around in their room over my head, probably trying to rearrange the sleeping quarters. "Food!" shouts Aunt Lisa. It's lunchtime.
16 December 2005
What a bunch of funny people!
Now Playing: lots of cousins
Cast of Characters (though most of you won't need this):
Uncle Kirk: my mother's younger brother, a doctor; with greying black hair and a funny smile (and he likes Tolkien! :)
Aunt Lisa: homeschool mother, math teacher, and quilting-and-knitting aficionado; long, straight, blond hair, and precise, deliberate way
Ross: my eldest cousin (17); thickset, muscled; with very short blond hair that used to be curly, until he went into the ROTC and they shaved it all off
Andrew: my next cousin (15); slender, dark-eyed, a carbon copy of my uncle
Peter: 13 or thereabouts; dark-haired, shorter and broader than Andrew; a friendly chap
Lillian: 11 or thereabouts; slender, dark-eyed, and freckled; almost a female version of Andrew
Annalee: 8 or so; short, with a headful of irrepressible blond curls; she bounces everywhere
Mary: 3, short, with a very sunny smile and hazel eyes; like Annalee, she seems to skip or hop everywhere she goes
Yesterday my cousins drove up from the south. They're all pansies, not being used to the cold weather. Last night we took them with us to Brother1's and Daisy's basketball games.
The first thing I heard this morning was the little girls (Daisy, Annalee, and Mary) giggling in the bathroom. They clattered around trying to find ribbons for their hair, and slammed my bedroom door open, and giggled some more, until Lillian, who's sleeping on a cot in my room, got up and joined them. I stayed hidden under the covers until they had cleared out, and then cautiously dressed and made my way downstairs. Of course, everyone (except Ross, who just finished his freshman semester in college) had already eaten. The adults were sitting around and discussing church controversies--sole Psalmody and the federal headship group.
After breakfast, I helped my mother wrap presents for the cousins, which my mother promptly gave to them to open. The three girls received bead packages, and the boys got a puzzle. Andrew immediately dumped the puzzle out onto a table, and he, Brother2, and Peter proceeded to sort through the jumbled pieces. I talked with Ross and my uncle about linguistics and music. The house was chaos: Ross went off to play computer games (chiefly composed of loud, zooming cars), the three younger boys were arguing and sorting out puzzle pieces, and the little girls were putting together necklaces, scribbling silly stories on pieces of paper, and generally spreading plastic baby toys all over the house.
For lunch we drove out to my grandmother's house. She lives in a duplex at an independent living facility where they have lunch for the residents and whatever guests the residents happen to invite. On the way, we passed red gashes in the fields where construction is going on. Blue trees the color of indigo at the heart of a candleflame, and saffron fields the gold of the flame's edge, had been bulldozed to make way for little "ticky-tacky" houses, in which all the beautiful bits are tossed together randomly, producing a peculiar and rather unpleasant architectural concoction.
At my grandmother's place, we all trooped into the communal dining room. There were sixteen of us (my other grandparents came, t00). Quite a sight. The elderly residents ogled us dully as we entered the room. After lunch, some people went home, but my grandmother, Aunt Lisa, Uncle Kirk, and I drove down to a little town southwest of where I live--a little town dropped like a pebble into rippling fields of winter wheat and cattle pasture. We went to a house fitted out as a quilting shop. While Uncle Kirk stroked the shop's cat, a sleek, black-and-white feline named High Dollar who purred uproariously at anyone who came near, Aunt Lisa and my grandmother poured over the racks of cloth and patterns. A couple of elderly women stitched leisurely at brightly-colored flannel quilts. I strolled about, looking at the cloth myself. Cheerful, fuzzy flannels; swirly, water-stained batiks; Asian patterns, gold-edged cranes and lotus flowers. There was Amish cloth with tiny, dark prints; black-and-white polka dots; red maple leaves veined with gold thread; orange patterns like swirling firebird feathers; green palmetto frond prints; blue stars.... Like being in a glowing underwater grotto--the fantastically-tinted, weird shapes of tidepool creatures, and the delicate fans of coral reefs. I helped Aunt Lisa pick out fat quarters for Peter's quilt: more muted colors (no florals!).
At home I showed my grandmother some new blogs, with which she was fascinated. I lounged on the sofa, feeling luxurious, and wasted time by reading "Calvin and Hobbes" comics. I helped my mother with supper: setting the long table for the seventeen of us, putting out fruit, etc. The house smelled salty, of ham, and brown-sugar-sweet, of squash. All my relatives who live in town came to eat supper with us, and a merry meal it was. The adults got to go first, leaving the children sitting and giggling, quarreling, complaining, or yawning at the lower end of the table. Peter put on a special hyena-yawn for the picture I took of him.
After supper we drove to a community band Christmas concert. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Mary fell asleep on the way and had to be tumbled not-too-gently out of her carseat. The community theatre was fairly full. I think whatever architect built that theatre was rather ambitious--I've never seen the place actually packed, nor do I think it could be. The band played fairly well. Fuzzy, jazzy Christmas tunes that are about as interesting to me as Hallmark rhymes. But they did play the overture to Handel's "Messiah", and three Christmas folk songs that I hadn't heard before. Afterwards (joy-of-joys!), I got to talk to my flute teacher, who was playing first flute in the band. She's doing quite well.
We got home around eight thirty, but of course everyone between the ages of sixteen and nineteen stayed up until ten thirty talking. My aunt was good enough to stay up with us (Brother1, Ross, and me). She sat, knitting, at the table, while the three of us lounged around and talked about the weird customs they have in ROTC and meal plans and unpleasant professors and getting out of labs. After awhile, my aunt finally put down her knitting and said, "Well, kids, it's ten thirty..." I took the hint and promptly went up to bed, only to find Lillian fast asleep on her cot in my room.
Cast of Characters (though most of you won't need this):
Uncle Kirk: my mother's younger brother, a doctor; with greying black hair and a funny smile (and he likes Tolkien! :)
Aunt Lisa: homeschool mother, math teacher, and quilting-and-knitting aficionado; long, straight, blond hair, and precise, deliberate way
Ross: my eldest cousin (17); thickset, muscled; with very short blond hair that used to be curly, until he went into the ROTC and they shaved it all off
Andrew: my next cousin (15); slender, dark-eyed, a carbon copy of my uncle
Peter: 13 or thereabouts; dark-haired, shorter and broader than Andrew; a friendly chap
Lillian: 11 or thereabouts; slender, dark-eyed, and freckled; almost a female version of Andrew
Annalee: 8 or so; short, with a headful of irrepressible blond curls; she bounces everywhere
Mary: 3, short, with a very sunny smile and hazel eyes; like Annalee, she seems to skip or hop everywhere she goes
Yesterday my cousins drove up from the south. They're all pansies, not being used to the cold weather. Last night we took them with us to Brother1's and Daisy's basketball games.
The first thing I heard this morning was the little girls (Daisy, Annalee, and Mary) giggling in the bathroom. They clattered around trying to find ribbons for their hair, and slammed my bedroom door open, and giggled some more, until Lillian, who's sleeping on a cot in my room, got up and joined them. I stayed hidden under the covers until they had cleared out, and then cautiously dressed and made my way downstairs. Of course, everyone (except Ross, who just finished his freshman semester in college) had already eaten. The adults were sitting around and discussing church controversies--sole Psalmody and the federal headship group.
After breakfast, I helped my mother wrap presents for the cousins, which my mother promptly gave to them to open. The three girls received bead packages, and the boys got a puzzle. Andrew immediately dumped the puzzle out onto a table, and he, Brother2, and Peter proceeded to sort through the jumbled pieces. I talked with Ross and my uncle about linguistics and music. The house was chaos: Ross went off to play computer games (chiefly composed of loud, zooming cars), the three younger boys were arguing and sorting out puzzle pieces, and the little girls were putting together necklaces, scribbling silly stories on pieces of paper, and generally spreading plastic baby toys all over the house.
For lunch we drove out to my grandmother's house. She lives in a duplex at an independent living facility where they have lunch for the residents and whatever guests the residents happen to invite. On the way, we passed red gashes in the fields where construction is going on. Blue trees the color of indigo at the heart of a candleflame, and saffron fields the gold of the flame's edge, had been bulldozed to make way for little "ticky-tacky" houses, in which all the beautiful bits are tossed together randomly, producing a peculiar and rather unpleasant architectural concoction.
At my grandmother's place, we all trooped into the communal dining room. There were sixteen of us (my other grandparents came, t00). Quite a sight. The elderly residents ogled us dully as we entered the room. After lunch, some people went home, but my grandmother, Aunt Lisa, Uncle Kirk, and I drove down to a little town southwest of where I live--a little town dropped like a pebble into rippling fields of winter wheat and cattle pasture. We went to a house fitted out as a quilting shop. While Uncle Kirk stroked the shop's cat, a sleek, black-and-white feline named High Dollar who purred uproariously at anyone who came near, Aunt Lisa and my grandmother poured over the racks of cloth and patterns. A couple of elderly women stitched leisurely at brightly-colored flannel quilts. I strolled about, looking at the cloth myself. Cheerful, fuzzy flannels; swirly, water-stained batiks; Asian patterns, gold-edged cranes and lotus flowers. There was Amish cloth with tiny, dark prints; black-and-white polka dots; red maple leaves veined with gold thread; orange patterns like swirling firebird feathers; green palmetto frond prints; blue stars.... Like being in a glowing underwater grotto--the fantastically-tinted, weird shapes of tidepool creatures, and the delicate fans of coral reefs. I helped Aunt Lisa pick out fat quarters for Peter's quilt: more muted colors (no florals!).
At home I showed my grandmother some new blogs, with which she was fascinated. I lounged on the sofa, feeling luxurious, and wasted time by reading "Calvin and Hobbes" comics. I helped my mother with supper: setting the long table for the seventeen of us, putting out fruit, etc. The house smelled salty, of ham, and brown-sugar-sweet, of squash. All my relatives who live in town came to eat supper with us, and a merry meal it was. The adults got to go first, leaving the children sitting and giggling, quarreling, complaining, or yawning at the lower end of the table. Peter put on a special hyena-yawn for the picture I took of him.
After supper we drove to a community band Christmas concert. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Mary fell asleep on the way and had to be tumbled not-too-gently out of her carseat. The community theatre was fairly full. I think whatever architect built that theatre was rather ambitious--I've never seen the place actually packed, nor do I think it could be. The band played fairly well. Fuzzy, jazzy Christmas tunes that are about as interesting to me as Hallmark rhymes. But they did play the overture to Handel's "Messiah", and three Christmas folk songs that I hadn't heard before. Afterwards (joy-of-joys!), I got to talk to my flute teacher, who was playing first flute in the band. She's doing quite well.
We got home around eight thirty, but of course everyone between the ages of sixteen and nineteen stayed up until ten thirty talking. My aunt was good enough to stay up with us (Brother1, Ross, and me). She sat, knitting, at the table, while the three of us lounged around and talked about the weird customs they have in ROTC and meal plans and unpleasant professors and getting out of labs. After awhile, my aunt finally put down her knitting and said, "Well, kids, it's ten thirty..." I took the hint and promptly went up to bed, only to find Lillian fast asleep on her cot in my room.
08 December 2005
RUF formal, Part Two
Now Playing: "The Planets", by Gustav Holst. Track 5, "Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age."
Over the time we’d been there, I’d been wondering where Alisha and Jenny were. They arrived long after everyone else because they’d gotten lostTara
People around us munched chocolate cheesecake, cookies, or crackers. The warm, rough smell of coffee and the sharp, spicy smell of apple cider steamed from a couple of carafes on the kitchen counter. People laughed and talked.Despite all the merriment, the moving people, and the little girls scurrying through the crowd, the candles on the table burned impeccably without a flicker, as smooth as candles painted with oils on a canvas.
After awhile, Syneva and Matt gathered people together in the long room to dance the Virginia reel. There were perhaps fifteen couples (at the party there were at least forty people total, if not more), which was far too many despite the size of the room. Rachel danced withAustin
When one round was over, people stepped out, men and women took new partners, and the dance restarted. I danced this time. Once again, “Ode to a Butterfly” came on, and we danced and danced and danced…. It was as though I was inside the music—the two lines intertwining, like mandolin and fiddle, bodies trapped by the guitar, the boys’ feet stomping and the girls’ feet clicking in time to the bass. The painting came to life; the music became visible—tapping feet, swaying skirts, clapping hands, and all the time the unquenchable mandolin skipping, tripping, laughing, feet and faces and hands and glistening dresses.
The joy of it left me breathless.
After the dance, I sat by Rachel on a pair of chairs near the dance floor. People blew the foam off cups of punch and drank and talked.
After awhile, I was hurried off by someone—Matt or Alisha or Syneva—to join the broom waltz.
Over the time we’d been there, I’d been wondering where Alisha and Jenny were. They arrived long after everyone else because they’d gotten lost
People around us munched chocolate cheesecake, cookies, or crackers. The warm, rough smell of coffee and the sharp, spicy smell of apple cider steamed from a couple of carafes on the kitchen counter. People laughed and talked.Despite all the merriment, the moving people, and the little girls scurrying through the crowd, the candles on the table burned impeccably without a flicker, as smooth as candles painted with oils on a canvas.
After awhile, Syneva and Matt gathered people together in the long room to dance the Virginia reel. There were perhaps fifteen couples (at the party there were at least forty people total, if not more), which was far too many despite the size of the room. Rachel danced with
When one round was over, people stepped out, men and women took new partners, and the dance restarted. I danced this time. Once again, “Ode to a Butterfly” came on, and we danced and danced and danced…. It was as though I was inside the music—the two lines intertwining, like mandolin and fiddle, bodies trapped by the guitar, the boys’ feet stomping and the girls’ feet clicking in time to the bass. The painting came to life; the music became visible—tapping feet, swaying skirts, clapping hands, and all the time the unquenchable mandolin skipping, tripping, laughing, feet and faces and hands and glistening dresses.
The joy of it left me breathless.
After the dance, I sat by Rachel on a pair of chairs near the dance floor. People blew the foam off cups of punch and drank and talked.
After awhile, I was hurried off by someone—Matt or Alisha or Syneva—to join the broom waltz.
Syneva and Matt showed us how to dance the broom waltz. There were one-too-many boys. The music played, and everyone danced until Esther, sitting by the side, tapped a spoon against a glass. Then all the boys had to find a new partner, and whoever was left out had to dance with the broom. Syneva suggested that everyone just dance a plain, two-step waltz. By the end of the dance, I felt like a broom myself, having been passed off every couple of minutes from one boy to the next.
I stood with Alisha and Rachel for awhile, talking about the waltz. I tried to demonstrate the true waltz step for them, hitching up my skirts above my ankles and watching my silver sandals sparkle through the steps. Jason happened to be passing by at the moment, and said, “Oh! Do you want to dance?” I glanced up, startled, and looked at Rachel and Alisha. “Sure… sure,” I said. He went over and turned on “Ode to a Butterfly”. Couples gathered and… we danced the Virginia reel again! Skirts spun outward and swayed back again, rippling as couples galloped between the lines in the sashe. As everyone ducked under the short arch that Mr. and Mrs. K made, people laughed and cheered.
After that last reel, I was very tired. People gathered for pictures: first girls, then boys, then everyone together, which was quite a feat. We all crowded beside the Christmas tree, the tallest boys in the back standing on their tiptoes, the shorter girls in the front crowding together, some of the girls kneeling, and some of the boys reclining or sitting in the very front. Glossy smiles, shining eyes reflecting the camera lights like snowflakes, glittering dresses—flash of the camera, and captured, frozen.
When the pictures had been taken and the thank-yous made to our hosts, the party began to break up. Like flakes of paint falling from a canvas, people drifted away, gowned girls trailing behind the suited boys (who had, as a courtesy, done most of the driving) to the cars. Kevin, Daniel, Rachel, and I were among the first to leave. As we drove toward downtown, the lights flashed off in the skyscrapers. Kevin dropped me off at the dorm. I scurried inside, my skirts gathered up around my legs.
Once in my room, I locked the door, changed clothes, and went to bed.
Later, I learned that the others’ night had not been nearly as serene. Apparently, the last three cars to leave the party had had serious difficulties. Mr. K locked his keys in his car (the rest of his family had already gone home). He called Mrs. K, who brought an electric door opener, but the door opener didn’t have enough power, so she had to hurry to the store to buy batteries. They finally got the car unlocked. Meanwhile, Katie’s car blew a tire half a mile away from campus. She and the other two people in her car ran the rest of the way to campus; apparently, Katie was so chilled that she sat up for a couple of hours by the fireplace in
the longest post of the century: the RUF formal, Part One
Now Playing: "The Planets" by Gustav Holst. Track 3, "Mercury: The Winged Messenger."
A short preface: I wrote most of this entry yesterday over the course of the day, so if you get tired reading it, don't feel bad because I got tired writing it. Nothing has been added, though some things have been taken out.
Tuesday night was the RUF formal. Here is a detailed description.
I tried to see to whom I have already introduced you all, but since I couldn’t find a post I thought I’d made with most of these people in it, I suppose I shall have to re-describe them—please excuse the repetition.
Cast of Characters, in order of appearance:
Tara (whom you already know)
Rachel (whom you already know)
Katie: an English major who dresses like one, with clinking bracelets and a coat brocaded with roses, who is friendly to everyone
Kevin: a quiet young man who plays the cello and is studying to be a petroleum engineer
Daniel: an Asian boy who reminds me of Will P., quietly cheerful, and very courteous
Asher: a young man with a bushy beard who occasionally wears Jewish-style clothes and who tonight had on a hat, a black suit, and a red umbrella slung over his arm
Andrew: Matt’s brother; a very, very tall young man, quiet, with dark hair; he also was wearing a hat
James: a quiet young man who’s a psychology major, loves French, and comes from
(and various other boys with whom I am not well acquainted)
Jenny H. (whom you already know)
Spencer (whom you already know)
Jessica: a quiet but bubbly blond girl who hangs out a lot with boys
Katherine: the girl who joined us on our outing to find kites—a quiet girl with dark hair and a wide smile
Amanda: a very pretty, cheerful, softspoken young woman who’s an English major
Syneva: a dark-haired young woman who’s very similar to Amanda (though, just from my brief friendship with the two, I would say Syneva is the more practical of the pair), and who is Amanda’s best friend; she’s a double piano/cello major; she has a chuckling laugh
Esther: a slim young woman with short, curly hair and a bubbling giggle
Matt: a dark-haired, pale young chap who’s an English major but loves philosophy and thinks seriously about everything, then laughs about it later
Mr. K: the leader of RUF; a short, hobbit-like man who’s energetic, forceful, outgoing, and welcoming to everyone
Jenny (whom you already know)
Alisha (whom you already know)
Jason: a friendly young man with large ears and a big, happy smile—about all I know of him is that he’s a good dancer
When
After supper, Tara, Katie, Rachel, and I ran back to our respective rooms. I tossed my sweater and pants onto my bed and scrambled into my slip, struggling with the hook in the back. The layers of taffeta and net swished around my ankles like snow. I slid the shimmering, blue, mermaid’s-tail dress on over it, clasped my necklace on, and brushed my hair. Then I hurried down the hall to
Everyone shivered as the wind hit us outside and tossed our skirts around our knees. Jenny complained about her toes being cold. We clattered over to
We drove down the highway south, out of the city with its thickly-layered highways and buildings. On the left, the land fell away, but the misty valley below was strewn with thousands of lights—streets, homes, shops. On the right, the land rose in a steep embankment crowned with silent trees, gaunt latticework pressed against the dark sky. At last, turning west, we entered a quiet neighborhood—large houses on expansive lots, with pastures between them in places. We turned into one of these houses, a big home that sparkled like a gingerbread house, encrusted with frost and glittering with lights like jellied candies. A pond glittered on the lawn below the house, its edges rimmed with ice. We entered through sliding glass door at one side. Through the glass, the huge room at the back of the house looked like a Christmas card picture: the tree shining in the middle of the room, decked in gold and silver and crimson; the young men standing about in their coats and ties; the young women hovering like scraps from a tailor’s shop, dressed in satin and velvet and taffeta, blue and pink and dark green; and a few children (the Ks’ children) in miniature versions of the adults’ clothes. Then we stepped through and became part of the picture.
Amanda greeted us and took our coats. Her pale pink dress was wrapped gracefully around her waist. She hurried away into the labyrinthine house. For awhile, Rachel and I stood uncertainly by the door. Then Syneva came up to us. She had on a smooth satin gown, white with dark blue edging, and she wore elegant white gloves that fit tightly above her elbows. They reminded me of cat’s paws. She chatted with us and helped us to join in the game that people were playing. Everyone had a name taped to their back, and they had to go around asking yes or no questions of people to figure out what name they were. Syneva had Eleanor Roosevelt. She asked questions of Rachel and me until she finally guessed it. Esther came over to us for a little while and asked a few questions. She had on a dark green dress, smooth satin like Syneva’s, but with a high, Jane-Austen-style waist and long ribbons in the back. Later, I told her that she looked like a character from Jane Austen, and she laughed that she’d always wanted to be Lizzy Bennett.
Rachel and I stood together in the kitchen, sipping rose-colored, lemon-tangy punch and trying to figure out what names we were. I eventually managed to narrow it down to someone “related to Abraham”, but I didn’t realize that I should think beyond Abraham’s immediate relatives. Syneva and Amanda joined us. “Am I… Eve?” I asked suspiciously at last, and I was. Amanda and Syneva tried to help Esther guess who she was. Esther finally guessed correctly: Hermione from the “Harry Potter” books. She didn’t like her name, so she gave it to Syneva to wear. I had a hard time answering Rachel’s questions. When I’d seen her name, I had been unable to suppress a shout of laughter—she was Athena, which seemed quite fitting considering Honors class. At last she guessed it. We helped others with their names: Austin, who turned out to be Rosencrantz, and James, who turned out to be Sigmund Freud, which occasioned a great deal of laughter. Austin, Rachel, and I hadn’t been very helpful to James, who knew more about Freud than we did—we only gave him misleading answers. It took Katie’s assistance before James figured out who he was.
07 December 2005
Plato, Narnia, and "in the world but not of it"
(This was supposed to be published on Tuesday, December 6th, but my blog seems to be having difficulties with publishing.)
Now Playing: The "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" soundtrack by
Yesterday I spent all morning studying impatiently for my Pocahontas class final exam. The exam was at 11:00 a.m. It was an in-class essay. I think I did alright, though none of my ideas were very original, and I'm a little bit worried that she'll count off for that. But if I were to put down any of my "original" ideas, and tell her exactly what I thought about the text, she'd probably just get mad, and that wouldn't accomplish anything. So I just wrote a bland essay analyzing the text and trying not to put any opinion into it whatsoever, which was very boring.
In the afternoon, I met with Dr. G about my Honors paper. We sat and discussed Plato's "Symposium" for quite awhile. It was very interesting--in fact, it led to a "lightbulb" moment later. You see, after our discussion, I walked over to the library and sat in the student study for awhile, scribbling notes all over the margins of my essay. Chequered afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows and warmed my chapped hands. I stared out the window at the blank, white sky beyond the ripply glass, like looking down a road through a mirage. And I realized something: Plato's ideas in the "Symposium" get so very, very close to Christianity that it's almost painful. And that's all I shall say here (*hem* you'll have to go to my other blog to get the full philosophical diatribe).
Rachel, Matt, James, Emily, and I ate supper together. Emily is studying to be a mechanical engineer. James is a softspoken boy from
After supper, Rachel and I got into a heated discussion of Plato. We were standing outside, and I began to shiver so hard that my voice shook, so I suggested that we go indoors. We sat upstairs in my room and talked and talked, about Narnia and Plato and other things. We watched the big Narnia trailer together. It's going to be another week at least until either one of us sees it, which is rather a sad thought. After watching it, we were both quite enthusiastic, despite some of the changes they've made. The change that irks me the most is only a tiny one, but very noticeable: Aslan snarls at the Witch's creatures as he walks up the hill to the stone table. Now, this would be excusable were it not for the fact that Aslan is such an obvious picture of Christ. Christ went "like a lamb to the slaughter; He opened not His mouth". To have an Aslan that snarls puts a stain on the picture of Christ as the humble, innocent sacrifice, willingly offering Himself without a hint of anger or desire for revenge.
Last night I went to bed early, and this morning I woke up late (in other words, eight o'clock). I've spent all morning in a state of scatter-brain-ed-ness: editing my Honors paper to reflect my "lightbulb" moment (without explicitly stating anything about Christianity--*growl*), sending e-mails to various advisors to change course sections, looking up textbooks for next semester on the web, and fiddling with my template (with the patient help of the Shadow). And, yes, that lovely image you now see at the top of the page (which, in fact, reminds me of Elves--there's another version of it that looks like Gondor's White Tree in bloom) is courtesy of the Shadow himself.
Tonight there's an RUF formal--games, dancing, and dessert, or so I've heard. Syneva, hopefully, will teach us how to do contradancing and other plain dances, like the Virginia Reel, which is always fun (though I can't imagine trying to do that one in a long skirt!). And this afternoon I'm supposed to meet with Dr. S about my British Writers paper. And of course, I've got pages and pages of things to memorize for my final exams this Thursday and Friday, and next Thursday, though I think I have the material for British Writers under control.
Well, this is enough. Whenever I get in one of these brisk moods, my fingers refuse to stop dancing over the keyboard, and I've taken up too much space already.
04 December 2005
dumb movies, cats, and basketball
Well, it's nearly eleven o'clock and I'm exhausted. But someone either next door (A.C.) or downstairs is watching an action movie, and it's really loud. People keep screaming, and there are lots of explosions, howls, screams, etc. Also plenty of raunchy laughter.
Last week was fairly good, actually. Perhaps that was just because I got to go off campus a couple of times, and that's always a big treat. On Wednesday night, the girls in my Bible study went over to the house of two brothers, Matt and Andrew, who are also in RUF. The mother of these brothers lives in a nice neighborhood in an older, nicer part of Tulsa-- elegant houses, like Victorian women in satin ball dresses. The brothers are leaders of the freshman boys' Bible study, and the two studies (freshman girls' and freshman boys') combined to do supper together. The boys cooked supper, and the girls brought dessert. Matt and Andrew and their mother have three cats: a medium-sized, elderly black-and-white cat; a fat brown-and-white cat with sides as shiny as polished tortoise shell (he was frightened of all the people), and a little, fuzzy grey cat who draped herself over the luxurious sofa in the front room and purred appreciatively whenever anyone rubbed her stomach or her ears.
Thursday night, I was up until two o'clock discussing the Gospel with A.C. By the end I was swaying with weariness. I showed her the parable of Dives and Lazarus in Luke 16, and she read carefully for quite awhile. This was at the end of our discussion, and she finally handed the Bible back to me, saying that she needed to go to bed, thus ending our talk. Syneva told me when I described the occasion to her, "The Word of God is like a lion: you let it out into the room, and it can take care of itself." Thursday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours at Syneva's apartment, just talking. She loves J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, too, so we discussed those. The discussion was earnest, but not argumentative. She also likes Rosemary Sutcliff (yes!!), and, of course, music. At one point, one of the girls who shares her apartment, Amanda, came in and asked us a question about the definition of cruelty, which was the topic of a paper she was working on, so the philosophy added some spice to our conversation.
This week was the last week of Tuesday/Thursday classes. I'll miss Major British Writers and Honors, a little--though they were challenging, they were also very interesting. Honors provoked so many good discussions. On Thursday, Rachel and I could hardly stop talking after class, so deep were we in conversation about love (we finished Honors with Plato's "Symposium), literary criticism (how much can you infer from the order in which Plato placed the speeches in the "Symposium"?), and methods of presenting the Gospel, using Paul's speech on Mars hill as an example of a presentation that both preserves the Gospel intact while connecting with the audience.
Friday night, twelve girls from RUF drove an hour and a half to another city, Syneva's hometown, for the RUF girls' retreat. Syneva's family hosted the retreat. They have an enormous house on seven levels--the house is like a child's lego construction, with funny little rooms thrown out here and there. Syneva's family has a big, fuzzy dog and two cats. They also have a music room containing a grand piano, a synthesizer, an organ, two flutes, a violin, a trumpet, a clarinet, a saxophone, a harp, and a hammered dulcimer. The dulcimer and the harp were both fascinating to me (the flutes were both low-end brands). The dulcimer had a brittle, elaborate, crisp sound, but the harp was goldenly resonant--a sound that, if it were to be made into sight, would look like a lion's mane.
After supper Friday night, we had a Bible study on the topic of romance. *hem* Not my specialty, exactly, but most of the RUF girls think about boys a lot. It was a bit uncomfortable for me. However, we also discussed "self-image" and behavior in a large group, which was slightly more helpful. When our study was over, everyone crowded into the kitchen to eat chocolate cake. I joined the conversation for awhile, chuckling with the gales of laughter as we shared funny stories, but then my scanty five-and-a-half hours of sleep from the night before began to wear thin. While they stood around and laughed, I slipped out and curled up on the sofa with the cats to drowse for a little bit.
We stayed up late watching "Miss Congeniality 2", a very dumb movie about a woman who's an FBI agent and a beauty queen. The plot would've been palatable had not there been some rather objectionable humor (nothing too dreadful, just unpleasant).
After the movie, everyone trailed off to their sleeping places. There were beds or cots/air mattresses for everyone. Syneva, Alisha, and I were to sleep in Syneva's room, Syneva on the floor and Alisha and I in Syneva's double bed. While Alisha (she's a quiet, Elvish sort of girl who plays violin) was out getting ready for bed, Jenny bounced into the room. Jenny flopped down on the bed and I stretched out beside her, while Syneva collapsed onto her mattress on the floor (she, too, was exhausted). Jenny was high-strung and hyper from the late night. Her loud, contagious laughter filled the little room. Jenny H. came in. (Jenny H. is a lithe Japanese girl with slender hands and dark, glossy hair--she reminds me of a kitten.) "Jenny," Syneva moaned to Jenny H. from the floor, "your job is to grab Jenny by the ankle and drag her out of here." So Jenny H., giggling, grabbed Jenny's tanned, muscular ankle and yanked. Jenny just lay still and laughed even louder. Even Syneva smiled at Jenny H.'s ineffectual attempt.
At last both Jennys bounced out of the room, and everything was quiet. But I lay awake for a long while, holding myself stiff for fear of disturbing Alisha, and sniffling uncomfortably from my cold and allergies. Alisha slept deeply--though, I must admit, she did make the weird clicking noises that Violin sometimes makes in her sleep. (Alisha confessed in the morning that she grinds her teeth in her sleep, too, so that her dentist had to make a special mouthpiece for her to keep her teeth from being worn down.) As I lay awake, I could hear Esther and Jenny whispering and giggling in the next room. I could also hear Syneva sighing and shifting restlessly on her pallet.
My mother came for me at noon on Saturday and drove me home. I spent most of the afternoon working on an Honors paper, though I also watched Brother2's basketball team, which his team won--partly thanks to a "sweet" layup that he scored in overtime. My mother, Brother2, and I ate supper with my grandmother at a Chinese restaurant since my father, Brother1, and Daisy were in another city at a basketball tournament for Brother1's and Daisy's teams. When they returned home, we discovered that both teams had taken second place in the tournament.
I was so tired that I nearly fell asleep during family devotions!
Last week was fairly good, actually. Perhaps that was just because I got to go off campus a couple of times, and that's always a big treat. On Wednesday night, the girls in my Bible study went over to the house of two brothers, Matt and Andrew, who are also in RUF. The mother of these brothers lives in a nice neighborhood in an older, nicer part of Tulsa-- elegant houses, like Victorian women in satin ball dresses. The brothers are leaders of the freshman boys' Bible study, and the two studies (freshman girls' and freshman boys') combined to do supper together. The boys cooked supper, and the girls brought dessert. Matt and Andrew and their mother have three cats: a medium-sized, elderly black-and-white cat; a fat brown-and-white cat with sides as shiny as polished tortoise shell (he was frightened of all the people), and a little, fuzzy grey cat who draped herself over the luxurious sofa in the front room and purred appreciatively whenever anyone rubbed her stomach or her ears.
Thursday night, I was up until two o'clock discussing the Gospel with A.C. By the end I was swaying with weariness. I showed her the parable of Dives and Lazarus in Luke 16, and she read carefully for quite awhile. This was at the end of our discussion, and she finally handed the Bible back to me, saying that she needed to go to bed, thus ending our talk. Syneva told me when I described the occasion to her, "The Word of God is like a lion: you let it out into the room, and it can take care of itself." Thursday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours at Syneva's apartment, just talking. She loves J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, too, so we discussed those. The discussion was earnest, but not argumentative. She also likes Rosemary Sutcliff (yes!!), and, of course, music. At one point, one of the girls who shares her apartment, Amanda, came in and asked us a question about the definition of cruelty, which was the topic of a paper she was working on, so the philosophy added some spice to our conversation.
This week was the last week of Tuesday/Thursday classes. I'll miss Major British Writers and Honors, a little--though they were challenging, they were also very interesting. Honors provoked so many good discussions. On Thursday, Rachel and I could hardly stop talking after class, so deep were we in conversation about love (we finished Honors with Plato's "Symposium), literary criticism (how much can you infer from the order in which Plato placed the speeches in the "Symposium"?), and methods of presenting the Gospel, using Paul's speech on Mars hill as an example of a presentation that both preserves the Gospel intact while connecting with the audience.
Friday night, twelve girls from RUF drove an hour and a half to another city, Syneva's hometown, for the RUF girls' retreat. Syneva's family hosted the retreat. They have an enormous house on seven levels--the house is like a child's lego construction, with funny little rooms thrown out here and there. Syneva's family has a big, fuzzy dog and two cats. They also have a music room containing a grand piano, a synthesizer, an organ, two flutes, a violin, a trumpet, a clarinet, a saxophone, a harp, and a hammered dulcimer. The dulcimer and the harp were both fascinating to me (the flutes were both low-end brands). The dulcimer had a brittle, elaborate, crisp sound, but the harp was goldenly resonant--a sound that, if it were to be made into sight, would look like a lion's mane.
After supper Friday night, we had a Bible study on the topic of romance. *hem* Not my specialty, exactly, but most of the RUF girls think about boys a lot. It was a bit uncomfortable for me. However, we also discussed "self-image" and behavior in a large group, which was slightly more helpful. When our study was over, everyone crowded into the kitchen to eat chocolate cake. I joined the conversation for awhile, chuckling with the gales of laughter as we shared funny stories, but then my scanty five-and-a-half hours of sleep from the night before began to wear thin. While they stood around and laughed, I slipped out and curled up on the sofa with the cats to drowse for a little bit.
We stayed up late watching "Miss Congeniality 2", a very dumb movie about a woman who's an FBI agent and a beauty queen. The plot would've been palatable had not there been some rather objectionable humor (nothing too dreadful, just unpleasant).
After the movie, everyone trailed off to their sleeping places. There were beds or cots/air mattresses for everyone. Syneva, Alisha, and I were to sleep in Syneva's room, Syneva on the floor and Alisha and I in Syneva's double bed. While Alisha (she's a quiet, Elvish sort of girl who plays violin) was out getting ready for bed, Jenny bounced into the room. Jenny flopped down on the bed and I stretched out beside her, while Syneva collapsed onto her mattress on the floor (she, too, was exhausted). Jenny was high-strung and hyper from the late night. Her loud, contagious laughter filled the little room. Jenny H. came in. (Jenny H. is a lithe Japanese girl with slender hands and dark, glossy hair--she reminds me of a kitten.) "Jenny," Syneva moaned to Jenny H. from the floor, "your job is to grab Jenny by the ankle and drag her out of here." So Jenny H., giggling, grabbed Jenny's tanned, muscular ankle and yanked. Jenny just lay still and laughed even louder. Even Syneva smiled at Jenny H.'s ineffectual attempt.
At last both Jennys bounced out of the room, and everything was quiet. But I lay awake for a long while, holding myself stiff for fear of disturbing Alisha, and sniffling uncomfortably from my cold and allergies. Alisha slept deeply--though, I must admit, she did make the weird clicking noises that Violin sometimes makes in her sleep. (Alisha confessed in the morning that she grinds her teeth in her sleep, too, so that her dentist had to make a special mouthpiece for her to keep her teeth from being worn down.) As I lay awake, I could hear Esther and Jenny whispering and giggling in the next room. I could also hear Syneva sighing and shifting restlessly on her pallet.
My mother came for me at noon on Saturday and drove me home. I spent most of the afternoon working on an Honors paper, though I also watched Brother2's basketball team, which his team won--partly thanks to a "sweet" layup that he scored in overtime. My mother, Brother2, and I ate supper with my grandmother at a Chinese restaurant since my father, Brother1, and Daisy were in another city at a basketball tournament for Brother1's and Daisy's teams. When they returned home, we discovered that both teams had taken second place in the tournament.
I was so tired that I nearly fell asleep during family devotions!
28 November 2005
It's snowing!
Now Playing: NPR's "Performance Today", a live performance of Dvorak string chamber music for two violins and (hahaha!!) viola. Very lovely, melodic, sweet, like meadows full of wildflowers.
People keep complaining about the colors on my blogs. Sorry. I have a screen that somehow distorts colors so that I see colors that look completely different on every other monitor.
This morning Rachel and I ate breakfast together, comparing notes on our Thanksgivings. After breakfast, I went to Tyrrell and practiced. There were several pianists already banging away when I got there. Thanks to my cold, the flute sounded fuzzy and faltering, not clear and Christine-like. After an hour, I gave up in despair and went to the library to research my paper about the consequences of stereotypes of Native Americans for my Pocahontas class. I ended up with a thick pile of mostly politically-correct rubbish, and spent the morning working on my paper.
As I walked to linguistics class this afternoon, I noticed little fuzzy flakes floating down the ferocious wind like diatoms on a strong current (there's another biological simile for you, Violin :). They were as tiny and grey-white as the smallest stars on the edge of seeing. Some melted, flecking the pavement wetly, while others scurried like molted feathers over the bricks.
After linguistics, I spent the afternoon studying. Dr. S has told us that we will be expected to write two in-class essays for our final exam, in addition to a variety of other questions. I can handle one essay. That's not too bad. I can write and slightly revise it. But two.... How on earth can I write two good essays, and revise them, make them acceptable, even with the extra time given for final exams?!
Evening came on fast, grey clouds eating up the sky like ice creeping over a blue pond. Two white stars sparkled in the sky, like swans in open water.
I ate supper with Rachel. She told me that she'd taken her heavy brown coat with her home, telling her mother, "I'll only wear this if it snows." So she'd left it at home... and lo and behold, the first day she's back, it does snow! We speculated about the secret lives of our professors, which led to some rather funny moments.
Well, 'tis time for more studying. Bible studying, and literature studying. We might have a pop quiz in British literature tomorrow. Ugh.
People keep complaining about the colors on my blogs. Sorry. I have a screen that somehow distorts colors so that I see colors that look completely different on every other monitor.
This morning Rachel and I ate breakfast together, comparing notes on our Thanksgivings. After breakfast, I went to Tyrrell and practiced. There were several pianists already banging away when I got there. Thanks to my cold, the flute sounded fuzzy and faltering, not clear and Christine-like. After an hour, I gave up in despair and went to the library to research my paper about the consequences of stereotypes of Native Americans for my Pocahontas class. I ended up with a thick pile of mostly politically-correct rubbish, and spent the morning working on my paper.
As I walked to linguistics class this afternoon, I noticed little fuzzy flakes floating down the ferocious wind like diatoms on a strong current (there's another biological simile for you, Violin :). They were as tiny and grey-white as the smallest stars on the edge of seeing. Some melted, flecking the pavement wetly, while others scurried like molted feathers over the bricks.
After linguistics, I spent the afternoon studying. Dr. S has told us that we will be expected to write two in-class essays for our final exam, in addition to a variety of other questions. I can handle one essay. That's not too bad. I can write and slightly revise it. But two.... How on earth can I write two good essays, and revise them, make them acceptable, even with the extra time given for final exams?!
Evening came on fast, grey clouds eating up the sky like ice creeping over a blue pond. Two white stars sparkled in the sky, like swans in open water.
I ate supper with Rachel. She told me that she'd taken her heavy brown coat with her home, telling her mother, "I'll only wear this if it snows." So she'd left it at home... and lo and behold, the first day she's back, it does snow! We speculated about the secret lives of our professors, which led to some rather funny moments.
Well, 'tis time for more studying. Bible studying, and literature studying. We might have a pop quiz in British literature tomorrow. Ugh.
25 November 2005
Nineteen!
Now Playing: Solas, "Sunny Spells and Scattered Showers". Track 2, "The Big Reel of Ballynacally/The High Hill/Flash away the Pressing Gang". (courtesy of Brother1, who got it courtesy Violin and SwanElf)
Today is my nineteenth birthday.
This morning, at ten o'clock, my family and I went to the funeral of Princess and Marigolds' grandfather. The front of the chapel was decorated with flowers. People filed in silently. There was quite a crowd. While people filtered in, quiet piano music played, and a slideshow of photos of Mr. M rolled on a TV screen—photos of a smiling, round-cheeked young man, a man with unwavering cheerfulness. We all stood as the Spitlers and their family entered and sat at the front of the chapel. Mr. P led the service. We sang Psalm 23B to begin. Mr. Parnell red Mr. M’s obituary. Then two soldiers in green dress uniforms marched to the front of the chapel. They stood silently before the folded, tri-cornered flag resting amidst the flowers, while outside a trumpeter played taps. The solemn, clear notes fell without wavering through the cold air, as vivid and ephemeral as the yellow maple leaves scudding down the street. When the last phrase had died away, one soldier lifted the flag while the other slowly saluted. Then the other held the flag, and the first soldier saluted, their salutes as measured and graceful as ballet arabesques. When they had saluted, one soldier placed the flag in Mrs. M’s arms, and the two men marched down the aisle. Mr. Parnell preached a brief message about the hope of resurrection in Christ. To finish, we sang Psalm 118C. It was a short, solemn sermon.
At home after the funeral, while M put the finishing touches on a simmering pot of bean stew, I baked biscuits. The girls were all coming over to celebrate my birthday--all except Meri and Estella, who are on vacation. We listened to the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack, which Brother2 gave me for my birthday (our deal was that if I gave him the "National Treasure" soundtrack for his birthday, he would give me the "Phantom of the Opera" for mine). L fixed icing for the chocolate cake. All the "men" vacated the house: my father went to work, on the way dropping Brother2 off at a friend's house, while Brother1 took refuge by going over to a neighbor's house to do her yardwork.
The Ws were the first to arrive. They helped set the table, and Christi helped my mother with the relish tray. Then Brioni came, and Violin and SwanElf. We ate a merry meal. People shared stories of silly things they’d done when they were littler. ALF and ECF, for instance, had made “perfume” with grape hyacinth flowers, dirt, and grass. We talked and laughed for an hour. Then L brought out the cake. She had switched the nine and the one, for what she thought would be a joke, so that the cake read “91”. *hem* All the voices together made quite a pretty three-part harmony out of the simple “Happy Birthday” ditty.
After ice cream, cake, and tea, everyone adjourned upstairs. Christi brought out her fancy embroidery machine, and we spread T-shirts, “bling-blings” (iron-on crystals), and spools of thread across the tables in the schoolroom. Everyone busily pondered what to do with their shirts. Dazzling silk colors flashed, sprawled, splashed across the table—indigo, teal, crimson, magenta, saffron, orange, aquamarine, turquoise, lilac, violet, royal blue, royal purple, rose, salmon, baby blue, lime, forest green, cream—colors rich as wine, heady, vibrating like pulsing butterfly wings.
In the midst of the sewing, I happened to glance out my window and see the Ss' car pull up. Princess and Marigold climbed out. I flew downstairs to greet them, bursting with joy, and brought them up again to join the party. Brioni and I had been agonizing over what to put on the Spitler girls’ empty shirts, so that we could give them to the girls at church, but they saved us the trouble by coming themselves. The schoolroom was a clatter of laughter, chatter, and click of the embroidery machine—bright colors, happy noise, like a flock of starlings, iridescent in the sunshine. We listened to the “Chariots of Fire” soundtrack, and L showed the girls crazy movies and photos on the computer until she had to leave for basketball practice. Brioni and the Ws left
at four o’clock.
After they left, Violin and Marigold brought up the presents that were downstairs. SwanElf and Princess ensconced me on my bed, and both crashed down beside me. Marigold dumped the presents onto the bed, then climbed on herself, while Violin sprawled on the floor, and my mother sat in the doorway on a chair. I opened the presents, with laughter at the little inside jokes (the "Mad Scientists" know what I mean... :). After I opened the packages, we sat around and joked for awhile. Princess snapped crazy pictures of Violin, SwanElf, Marigold, and me. Marigold tickled Princess and made her squeal. Outside, dusk fell quickly. The sky had become cloudy, and the golds and crimsons in the trees glowed in the gloom. We moved downstairs eventually, where we sat around and chatted until they all had to leave.
After the girls left, the house fell strangely quiet. I rattled around, putting things away. Nothing felt real. The moments slide through my fingers like sand. My family ate a quiet supper of Thanksgiving leftovers. Brother1 insisted on putting a candle into a piece of cake and singing happy birthday to me again since he hadn't gotten to yet. We watched an episode of the "Three Stooges" afterward.
So my week at home is almost over. It's strange not to live at home anymore, but to be a vagrant. I truly have "no fixed abode". Living out of a knapsack isn't the most pleasant thing, but for the next eight years of my life (counting grad school), that's the way it will be--and maybe the way it will be for the rest of my life. Writers aren't renowned for their settled ways, after all. But perhaps that's for the best. If I put down roots too firmly in this world, I won't be any good for the next one....
Today is my nineteenth birthday.
This morning, at ten o'clock, my family and I went to the funeral of Princess and Marigolds' grandfather. The front of the chapel was decorated with flowers. People filed in silently. There was quite a crowd. While people filtered in, quiet piano music played, and a slideshow of photos of Mr. M rolled on a TV screen—photos of a smiling, round-cheeked young man, a man with unwavering cheerfulness. We all stood as the Spitlers and their family entered and sat at the front of the chapel. Mr. P led the service. We sang Psalm 23B to begin. Mr. Parnell red Mr. M’s obituary. Then two soldiers in green dress uniforms marched to the front of the chapel. They stood silently before the folded, tri-cornered flag resting amidst the flowers, while outside a trumpeter played taps. The solemn, clear notes fell without wavering through the cold air, as vivid and ephemeral as the yellow maple leaves scudding down the street. When the last phrase had died away, one soldier lifted the flag while the other slowly saluted. Then the other held the flag, and the first soldier saluted, their salutes as measured and graceful as ballet arabesques. When they had saluted, one soldier placed the flag in Mrs. M’s arms, and the two men marched down the aisle. Mr. Parnell preached a brief message about the hope of resurrection in Christ. To finish, we sang Psalm 118C. It was a short, solemn sermon.
At home after the funeral, while M put the finishing touches on a simmering pot of bean stew, I baked biscuits. The girls were all coming over to celebrate my birthday--all except Meri and Estella, who are on vacation. We listened to the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack, which Brother2 gave me for my birthday (our deal was that if I gave him the "National Treasure" soundtrack for his birthday, he would give me the "Phantom of the Opera" for mine). L fixed icing for the chocolate cake. All the "men" vacated the house: my father went to work, on the way dropping Brother2 off at a friend's house, while Brother1 took refuge by going over to a neighbor's house to do her yardwork.
The Ws were the first to arrive. They helped set the table, and Christi helped my mother with the relish tray. Then Brioni came, and Violin and SwanElf. We ate a merry meal. People shared stories of silly things they’d done when they were littler. ALF and ECF, for instance, had made “perfume” with grape hyacinth flowers, dirt, and grass. We talked and laughed for an hour. Then L brought out the cake. She had switched the nine and the one, for what she thought would be a joke, so that the cake read “91”. *hem* All the voices together made quite a pretty three-part harmony out of the simple “Happy Birthday” ditty.
After ice cream, cake, and tea, everyone adjourned upstairs. Christi brought out her fancy embroidery machine, and we spread T-shirts, “bling-blings” (iron-on crystals), and spools of thread across the tables in the schoolroom. Everyone busily pondered what to do with their shirts. Dazzling silk colors flashed, sprawled, splashed across the table—indigo, teal, crimson, magenta, saffron, orange, aquamarine, turquoise, lilac, violet, royal blue, royal purple, rose, salmon, baby blue, lime, forest green, cream—colors rich as wine, heady, vibrating like pulsing butterfly wings.
In the midst of the sewing, I happened to glance out my window and see the Ss' car pull up. Princess and Marigold climbed out. I flew downstairs to greet them, bursting with joy, and brought them up again to join the party. Brioni and I had been agonizing over what to put on the Spitler girls’ empty shirts, so that we could give them to the girls at church, but they saved us the trouble by coming themselves. The schoolroom was a clatter of laughter, chatter, and click of the embroidery machine—bright colors, happy noise, like a flock of starlings, iridescent in the sunshine. We listened to the “Chariots of Fire” soundtrack, and L showed the girls crazy movies and photos on the computer until she had to leave for basketball practice. Brioni and the Ws left
at four o’clock.
After they left, Violin and Marigold brought up the presents that were downstairs. SwanElf and Princess ensconced me on my bed, and both crashed down beside me. Marigold dumped the presents onto the bed, then climbed on herself, while Violin sprawled on the floor, and my mother sat in the doorway on a chair. I opened the presents, with laughter at the little inside jokes (the "Mad Scientists" know what I mean... :). After I opened the packages, we sat around and joked for awhile. Princess snapped crazy pictures of Violin, SwanElf, Marigold, and me. Marigold tickled Princess and made her squeal. Outside, dusk fell quickly. The sky had become cloudy, and the golds and crimsons in the trees glowed in the gloom. We moved downstairs eventually, where we sat around and chatted until they all had to leave.
After the girls left, the house fell strangely quiet. I rattled around, putting things away. Nothing felt real. The moments slide through my fingers like sand. My family ate a quiet supper of Thanksgiving leftovers. Brother1 insisted on putting a candle into a piece of cake and singing happy birthday to me again since he hadn't gotten to yet. We watched an episode of the "Three Stooges" afterward.
So my week at home is almost over. It's strange not to live at home anymore, but to be a vagrant. I truly have "no fixed abode". Living out of a knapsack isn't the most pleasant thing, but for the next eight years of my life (counting grad school), that's the way it will be--and maybe the way it will be for the rest of my life. Writers aren't renowned for their settled ways, after all. But perhaps that's for the best. If I put down roots too firmly in this world, I won't be any good for the next one....
24 November 2005
Nota Bene
Yes, I have way too much time on my hands....
This is the same blog! Don't worry, just fooling around. The title comes from a story by Rosemary Sutcliff, about a group of Christians in late Roman Britain. The silver branch is the emblem they use to identify each other.
Anyhow, I now have another blog out there for philosophical ramblings and poetry. Check my profile to find it.
This is the same blog! Don't worry, just fooling around. The title comes from a story by Rosemary Sutcliff, about a group of Christians in late Roman Britain. The silver branch is the emblem they use to identify each other.
Anyhow, I now have another blog out there for philosophical ramblings and poetry. Check my profile to find it.
22 November 2005
sniffles and coughs
Now Playing: an "Adventures in Odyssey" CD. I'm not actually playing it, but I can hear it from the study because Daisy is playing it on the other side of the wall in the kitchen. She's baking cookies.
It has been brought to my attention (by Brother1, who teased me about it yesterday, and miss SwanElf, who just posted a comment) that I haven't posted in awhile. Hmmm... wonder why... could it possibly have to do with the fact that I have caught *drumroll please* The Plague?
Ok, here's a brief rundown:
I'm home for Thanksgiving break! Woo hoo! It feels wonderful to be home. Or rather, it would feel wonderful, had not my body decided that, now that I'm not under stress, to crash and burn: I've caught the Plague.
On Saturday, I managed to haul myself through door-to-door evangelism in a city near my hometown. I was with a bunch of friends from church, which made it an event not to be missed, let alone the opportunity to share the Gospel. We walked down lovely, long, story-book streets lined with old, Victorian homes. The houses were like paper cutouts from the Mitford stories. Some of them were brick, palatial, with white Corinthian columns. Others were clapboard, painted maroon or green, with blue or crimson shutters, and broad porches that creaked underfoot. Most of the houses were fairly well-kept, but they were all slightly dishevelled--like your mother's recital or prom dress, the dress that has a hem falling out and lace unravelling around the throat. Stately elm and sycamore trees dropped drifts of copper and gold leaves onto the sidewalks. We rustled through them, like wading through brown tidepools.
Thanks to my dissipation on Saturday, Sabbath was a struggle. I dragged myself out of bed Sabbath morning and managed to dress. I wheezed through Sabbath school and the church service, but as soon as the service was over, I shuffled over to my father. I gazed up at him out of sad, puppy-dog eyes. "Do you want to go home?" he asked. I nodded, a tear sliding down my cheek. "Ok, just a minute, and I'll take you home," he said. I sat down in the back row of chairs in the sanctuary. I was so exhausted, and so angry with myself for giving in to weakness that I couldn't stop crying. Tears welled up of their own accord. Mrs. P came and sat beside me for awhile, sympathizing with my helpless state. She offered to take me home, but I was so afraid of making her sick, too, that I insisted my father do it. On the drive home, my father chatted gently. He's a quiet person, but when you're in pain or sick, he'll come and talk about simple little things, so soothingly that it makes you relax and believe that the world isn't so dreadful after all.
At home, I changed clothes and flopped into bed. The rest of the day was spent in bed. Sabbath evening, all of my family (except Brother2, who is also plagued with the Plague) went to a Bible study. Brother2 and I ate chicken noodle soup for supper. Then he lounged on the sofa with a bag of kettlecorn, while I pulled the cushions off the other sofa in the study, stacked them on the living room floor, and lay down on them. Sandy curled up at my feet. We watched the old BBC production of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe". Despite the lame animals and animation, there's something comforting (don't laugh too loud, Violin and SwanElf) about those old movies.
On Monday, my mother coaxed me to the hospital to have lab work done (for a sickness completely unrelated to the Plague and not infectious). We sat in the waiting room for almost an hour before the phlegbotomist (Princess, you'll have to tell me if that's spelled right) called my name. I felt as miserable as an old rag doll. I slumped down into the phlegbotomist's blue chair and stared off over my right shoulder while she drew blood from my left arm. Now, I don't mind blood too much. The only difficulty is the hideous pulling sensation that you feel when someone is drawing blood. It seemed like forever before she was done. I sat and sang Psalm 84A to myself as loudly as I could, in my head.
Spent the rest of the day in bed--cough, sniffle, and all that. Drank quantities of tea and chicken soup. Listened to the "Chronicles of Narnia" series from Focus on the Family, watched "National Treasure" on my DVD player, and worked on Someone's birthday present.
Today I'm a little bit better. As I ate breakfast this morning, my father called with some very bad news. It doesn't directly touch my family (as in, none of my human-blood relations), but it touches my relatives by Christ's blood. I'll just say this: please pray hard for Princess, Marigold, and their family, especially their mother.
Well, if I go back to bed, maybe I'll be able to go to the orchestra concert at the university here tonight. It's all a matter of persuading my mother, who's fluttering over Brother2 and me as though we are two-day-old kittens. This is pleasant, for now--as long as I'm not desperately trying to go anywhere, which happens to be the case tonight.
It has been brought to my attention (by Brother1, who teased me about it yesterday, and miss SwanElf, who just posted a comment) that I haven't posted in awhile. Hmmm... wonder why... could it possibly have to do with the fact that I have caught *drumroll please* The Plague?
Ok, here's a brief rundown:
I'm home for Thanksgiving break! Woo hoo! It feels wonderful to be home. Or rather, it would feel wonderful, had not my body decided that, now that I'm not under stress, to crash and burn: I've caught the Plague.
On Saturday, I managed to haul myself through door-to-door evangelism in a city near my hometown. I was with a bunch of friends from church, which made it an event not to be missed, let alone the opportunity to share the Gospel. We walked down lovely, long, story-book streets lined with old, Victorian homes. The houses were like paper cutouts from the Mitford stories. Some of them were brick, palatial, with white Corinthian columns. Others were clapboard, painted maroon or green, with blue or crimson shutters, and broad porches that creaked underfoot. Most of the houses were fairly well-kept, but they were all slightly dishevelled--like your mother's recital or prom dress, the dress that has a hem falling out and lace unravelling around the throat. Stately elm and sycamore trees dropped drifts of copper and gold leaves onto the sidewalks. We rustled through them, like wading through brown tidepools.
Thanks to my dissipation on Saturday, Sabbath was a struggle. I dragged myself out of bed Sabbath morning and managed to dress. I wheezed through Sabbath school and the church service, but as soon as the service was over, I shuffled over to my father. I gazed up at him out of sad, puppy-dog eyes. "Do you want to go home?" he asked. I nodded, a tear sliding down my cheek. "Ok, just a minute, and I'll take you home," he said. I sat down in the back row of chairs in the sanctuary. I was so exhausted, and so angry with myself for giving in to weakness that I couldn't stop crying. Tears welled up of their own accord. Mrs. P came and sat beside me for awhile, sympathizing with my helpless state. She offered to take me home, but I was so afraid of making her sick, too, that I insisted my father do it. On the drive home, my father chatted gently. He's a quiet person, but when you're in pain or sick, he'll come and talk about simple little things, so soothingly that it makes you relax and believe that the world isn't so dreadful after all.
At home, I changed clothes and flopped into bed. The rest of the day was spent in bed. Sabbath evening, all of my family (except Brother2, who is also plagued with the Plague) went to a Bible study. Brother2 and I ate chicken noodle soup for supper. Then he lounged on the sofa with a bag of kettlecorn, while I pulled the cushions off the other sofa in the study, stacked them on the living room floor, and lay down on them. Sandy curled up at my feet. We watched the old BBC production of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe". Despite the lame animals and animation, there's something comforting (don't laugh too loud, Violin and SwanElf) about those old movies.
On Monday, my mother coaxed me to the hospital to have lab work done (for a sickness completely unrelated to the Plague and not infectious). We sat in the waiting room for almost an hour before the phlegbotomist (Princess, you'll have to tell me if that's spelled right) called my name. I felt as miserable as an old rag doll. I slumped down into the phlegbotomist's blue chair and stared off over my right shoulder while she drew blood from my left arm. Now, I don't mind blood too much. The only difficulty is the hideous pulling sensation that you feel when someone is drawing blood. It seemed like forever before she was done. I sat and sang Psalm 84A to myself as loudly as I could, in my head.
Spent the rest of the day in bed--cough, sniffle, and all that. Drank quantities of tea and chicken soup. Listened to the "Chronicles of Narnia" series from Focus on the Family, watched "National Treasure" on my DVD player, and worked on Someone's birthday present.
Today I'm a little bit better. As I ate breakfast this morning, my father called with some very bad news. It doesn't directly touch my family (as in, none of my human-blood relations), but it touches my relatives by Christ's blood. I'll just say this: please pray hard for Princess, Marigold, and their family, especially their mother.
Well, if I go back to bed, maybe I'll be able to go to the orchestra concert at the university here tonight. It's all a matter of persuading my mother, who's fluttering over Brother2 and me as though we are two-day-old kittens. This is pleasant, for now--as long as I'm not desperately trying to go anywhere, which happens to be the case tonight.
17 November 2005
the Infamous poem
Now Playing: Beethoven's 7th Symphony (as always!), first movement.
Today was Honors class, and time to show Dr. G my ridiculous poem.
I was the first to enter the room. The class meets in the Dean's "conference room", around a long wooden table shaped like the body of a paramecium. The room attempts to be warmly imposing, Oxfordian, but fails somewhat, because it also attempts to be modern and avant-garde. The severe modern style makes the room feel cold and sterile instead of warm and welcoming.
Anyhow, I was first in. As I sat down, I planted my bit of poetry at the head of the table, where Dr. G usually sits (except, of course, when a student usurps his place). I had to leave the room for a bit, and when I returned, the table was almost full. People were chatting and arguing about classes. Rachel came in and sat down beside me. She glanced at the sheet of paper lying innocently at Dr. G's place and gave me a conspiratorial grin.
A few moments later, Dr. G entered the room. He strolled down the table until he came to his seat. Noticing the paper, he picked it up and scanned the first couple of lines. "Does anyone know who left this?" he inquired. The other students turned from their conversations. "I think it was someone in the last class," Morgan ventured. Dr. G shook his head. The students returned to their talk. Dr. G settled down in his chair, delicately unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them back as he always does. Then he lifted the paper with my poem on it and began to read carefully. I glanced at him, keeping a straight face, then glanced at Rachel, who smiled a little. Then I stared at my lap, toying with my pen.
Slowly, the rest of the class realized that Dr. G hadn't begun class. Conversation tapered off. "What're you reading, Dr. G?" one of the boys, named Russ, asked. Dr. G was silent. Russ put his question several times, but still Dr. G was silent. Covertly looking up, I saw a smile hovering on his face, but he was quiet.
The whole class was hushed until he had finished reading--the minutes crawled by as slowly as this past week has done. I sat, twisting the cap of my pen around, anticipating what he would say, the same way I've spent this week, waiting anxiously for the break.
At last, Dr. G looked up, his face blank.. "Will anyone confess to this?" he inquired. Silence. "No one wants to own up? Who wrote this?" he asked again, his voice level, empty of sentiment. Russ waved his hand jokingly. "I wrote it!" he volunteered. Dr. G shook his head. "No one?" he said. I stared at my hands. They were chapped, the knuckles red, the skin between my thumb and forefinger peeling.
"Read it!" someone commanded. Several people chimed in. "Read it, read it!" they pestered. "I'm reluctant to read it without attributing it," he said. I glanced over cautiously and noticed that the smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I won't read it unless the author confesses. Who wrote this?" he asked again. By now, a smile was broad on his face. I looked up, and caught his eye. I grinned, and he grinned back. He paused, but didn't say anything more than, "C'mon, no one's going to confess?" to the rest of the class.
The students murmured impatiently.
Silence.
"I wrote it," I muttered, half-raising my hand.
Dr. G chuckled. "I had a feeling," he said, "Thanks for owning up." He slid it toward me across the table. "Here, read it." I gasped softly. "It's really good," he encouraged.
I picked it up, my hands shaking, though I hardly noticed them. The white paper stuck to my sweaty fingertips. Everyone was quiet, watching. Still slumped in my chair, I murmured, "This is all in fun."
Then I straightened up, leaned forward, grasped the paper, and began to read.
All the shards of the classroom fell away, the murmuring died down, and I was in control. It's hard to explain, but this has happened before--reading at Quartz Mountain, usually. You can feel the audience's attention immediately yank away from the busy thoughts of classes, food, boys, boredom, and become riveted, for perhaps only a couple of minutes, on you, yourself, your words, your voice. But you aren't the same person anymore. Someone else steps in, fills your body, speaks with another voice through you. An authoritative writer, a storyteller, an artist. The frightened, apologetic child steps back, and Orpheus stands in her place.
People laughed softly at the jokes--class jokes, things we knew about. They probably didn't find it nearly as funny as Rachel and Danielle did, they being my friends (besides, it had no bad words or filthy jokes in it--perhaps I'm rather cynical, but usually only things with that sort of humor are found enjoyable by these people).
When it was over, they clapped. There were broad smiles, polite murmurs, "That's really good," running around the table.
"That was fabulous," Dr. G said as I pushed the poem back to him across the sleek table. "Do you want to be in my poetry class, because you're in," he said--not asking, but stating.
He settled back in his chair. "Now, I have no connection to said Oracle or the Pythia [which I had mentioned in the poem], but I do have some things to say about revising papers..." and he moved on to class business.
After class was over, everyone began noisily to pack up their things. There were the usual cries of, "Have a good break! Get lots of sleep! Drive safely! Thanks! See you in a couple of weeks!" Dr. G, himself busy with his papers, looked over. "Thank you for the poem," he said, "it was really quite good."
I grinned at him, and then at Rachel, standing beside me, the three of us freely enjoying the moment. Then Rachel and I strolled to lunch together.
So that's how it went--probably less dramatic than I'm making it out to be, but a break from routine, certainly.
Today was Honors class, and time to show Dr. G my ridiculous poem.
I was the first to enter the room. The class meets in the Dean's "conference room", around a long wooden table shaped like the body of a paramecium. The room attempts to be warmly imposing, Oxfordian, but fails somewhat, because it also attempts to be modern and avant-garde. The severe modern style makes the room feel cold and sterile instead of warm and welcoming.
Anyhow, I was first in. As I sat down, I planted my bit of poetry at the head of the table, where Dr. G usually sits (except, of course, when a student usurps his place). I had to leave the room for a bit, and when I returned, the table was almost full. People were chatting and arguing about classes. Rachel came in and sat down beside me. She glanced at the sheet of paper lying innocently at Dr. G's place and gave me a conspiratorial grin.
A few moments later, Dr. G entered the room. He strolled down the table until he came to his seat. Noticing the paper, he picked it up and scanned the first couple of lines. "Does anyone know who left this?" he inquired. The other students turned from their conversations. "I think it was someone in the last class," Morgan ventured. Dr. G shook his head. The students returned to their talk. Dr. G settled down in his chair, delicately unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them back as he always does. Then he lifted the paper with my poem on it and began to read carefully. I glanced at him, keeping a straight face, then glanced at Rachel, who smiled a little. Then I stared at my lap, toying with my pen.
Slowly, the rest of the class realized that Dr. G hadn't begun class. Conversation tapered off. "What're you reading, Dr. G?" one of the boys, named Russ, asked. Dr. G was silent. Russ put his question several times, but still Dr. G was silent. Covertly looking up, I saw a smile hovering on his face, but he was quiet.
The whole class was hushed until he had finished reading--the minutes crawled by as slowly as this past week has done. I sat, twisting the cap of my pen around, anticipating what he would say, the same way I've spent this week, waiting anxiously for the break.
At last, Dr. G looked up, his face blank.. "Will anyone confess to this?" he inquired. Silence. "No one wants to own up? Who wrote this?" he asked again, his voice level, empty of sentiment. Russ waved his hand jokingly. "I wrote it!" he volunteered. Dr. G shook his head. "No one?" he said. I stared at my hands. They were chapped, the knuckles red, the skin between my thumb and forefinger peeling.
"Read it!" someone commanded. Several people chimed in. "Read it, read it!" they pestered. "I'm reluctant to read it without attributing it," he said. I glanced over cautiously and noticed that the smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I won't read it unless the author confesses. Who wrote this?" he asked again. By now, a smile was broad on his face. I looked up, and caught his eye. I grinned, and he grinned back. He paused, but didn't say anything more than, "C'mon, no one's going to confess?" to the rest of the class.
The students murmured impatiently.
Silence.
"I wrote it," I muttered, half-raising my hand.
Dr. G chuckled. "I had a feeling," he said, "Thanks for owning up." He slid it toward me across the table. "Here, read it." I gasped softly. "It's really good," he encouraged.
I picked it up, my hands shaking, though I hardly noticed them. The white paper stuck to my sweaty fingertips. Everyone was quiet, watching. Still slumped in my chair, I murmured, "This is all in fun."
Then I straightened up, leaned forward, grasped the paper, and began to read.
All the shards of the classroom fell away, the murmuring died down, and I was in control. It's hard to explain, but this has happened before--reading at Quartz Mountain, usually. You can feel the audience's attention immediately yank away from the busy thoughts of classes, food, boys, boredom, and become riveted, for perhaps only a couple of minutes, on you, yourself, your words, your voice. But you aren't the same person anymore. Someone else steps in, fills your body, speaks with another voice through you. An authoritative writer, a storyteller, an artist. The frightened, apologetic child steps back, and Orpheus stands in her place.
People laughed softly at the jokes--class jokes, things we knew about. They probably didn't find it nearly as funny as Rachel and Danielle did, they being my friends (besides, it had no bad words or filthy jokes in it--perhaps I'm rather cynical, but usually only things with that sort of humor are found enjoyable by these people).
When it was over, they clapped. There were broad smiles, polite murmurs, "That's really good," running around the table.
"That was fabulous," Dr. G said as I pushed the poem back to him across the sleek table. "Do you want to be in my poetry class, because you're in," he said--not asking, but stating.
He settled back in his chair. "Now, I have no connection to said Oracle or the Pythia [which I had mentioned in the poem], but I do have some things to say about revising papers..." and he moved on to class business.
After class was over, everyone began noisily to pack up their things. There were the usual cries of, "Have a good break! Get lots of sleep! Drive safely! Thanks! See you in a couple of weeks!" Dr. G, himself busy with his papers, looked over. "Thank you for the poem," he said, "it was really quite good."
I grinned at him, and then at Rachel, standing beside me, the three of us freely enjoying the moment. Then Rachel and I strolled to lunch together.
So that's how it went--probably less dramatic than I'm making it out to be, but a break from routine, certainly.
15 November 2005
marine biology, Alexander Pope, Socrates, and sleepiness
Now Playing: "The American Seasons" by Mark O'Connor. Track 6, "Strings and Threads Suite: Captain's Jig". This violin sounds like a drunk but cheerful mockingbird. Reminds me of August nights (or early mornings), at 2 a.m., when a mockingbird would suddenly and randomly start to sing away at the top of its lungs outside Daisy's window. Reminds me of waking up early in the morning to hot sunshine and the sound of all the crazy birds making as much ruckus as possible.
Today has been fairly unremarkable so far. Up early to do oceanography, as usual. The professor admitted last Thursday that students usually beg him to put in more marine biology, so he started marine biology earlier than usual. (N.B.: We only have two weeks left to the semester! I wonder, would he occupy the last one-and-a-half weeks with coastline properties, and only that last day with marine biology?!) He is most certainly not a biologist himself. He spells "Kingdom Protista" as "Kingdom Proctoctista", which drives me crazy since my mother is a biologist and drilled into me the proper names of all the kingdoms.
In Major British Writers, we received our paper topics for our final paper. If we want to turn in rough drafts to her to revise, they have to be ready by the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. I cannot express just how much I do not want to work on this paper during Thanksgiving, so I'm going to try to at least get most of it ironed out before the end of this week. It shouldn't be too bad. I'm either going to write about Feste in Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night", or about Alexander Pope and John Donne. We're reading Pope's "Essay on Criticism". I had no idea that these familiar maxims came from Pope: "To err is human, to forgive divine", and "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Anyhow, I think I'm going to write about the irony of how Pope, who is a Catholic, doesn't like the ornate styles popular with Catholics of Donne's time, while Donne, who was an Anglican (not quite a Protestant, I suppose, but certainly not a Catholic) uses the ornate styles that the Catholic Pope abjures. Feste is an interesting character because he's the typical Shakespearean "wise fool" who acts as a conscience for the other characters in the play. While all the other characters are rushing around making fools of themselves, Feste understands their emotions and tries to get them to realize what they're truly doing and feeling. Like Donne and Pope, he's interesting because of the irony--he's supposed to be a fool, and the other characters treat him as such, yet he's wiser than they are because he's the only one who sees through their deceptions.
In Honors, we looked at the "Apology of Socrates" and discussed piety. Last Saturday, I wrote a ridiculous poem about our class and Dr. G. I was silly enough to show it to Rachel and Danielle, who are in the class with me. They both thought it was hilarious and begged me to show it to Dr. G, so I reluctantly agreed to place it at his usual seat on Thursday, for him to read (without my name on it!). We shall see what he thinks of it.
During lunch, Rachel and I sat with a bunch of raucous Honors kids (students who live in the Honors House (the "Ho Ho"), not people who, like me, are not part of this elite housing establishment *hem hem*). For some reason, the Honors kids, who are supposed to be the quietest, most studious students, are the weirdest, wildest, noisiest people on campus. They're constantly teasing each other about inside jokes.
This afternoon I practiced my flute and read "World" magazine (yes, I did both simultaneously). While I was practicing, Syneva knocked on the practice room door. She's a double piano/cello major, and so she's often haunting Tyrrell Hall. She came in and chatted with me for awhile. She and the other girls here have been so hospitable to me that it's been quite a blessing. She and I are going to have a private Bible study/prayer time together, starting this Thursday. She's a mature, thoughtful girl, and I really look forward to getting to know her better. (For the record: she's a Calvinist, too. *grins*) After I finished practicing, I nearly fell asleep, daydreaming over Pope and listening to the "Fellowship of the Ring" soundtrack. The music and the iambic pentameter were so mesmerizing that the vivid pictures they traced in my brain drowned out the dull images of reality my eyes were seeing, forcing my eyes slowly to close.
It was far too cold and windy for my hothouse tastes to go jogging this afternoon. The sun set through a blue lake of sky, with clouds floating across the water like ripples kicked up by the wind.
Tonight I ate supper alone in the cafeteria. I recognized several acquaintances of mine who were in the caf at the same time, but I never can get the courage to sit with them, nor do I particularly want to. I suspect it's probably cowardice on my part, but I do prefer to sit either alone or with only a couple of good friends (like Rachel), instead of with distant acquaintances. Violin and SwanElf, doubtless, will argue, "How can you get to be good friends with someone unless you sit with them, and begin by being acquaintances?" Very good question. My only reply would be that there are certain people who just are good friends, and were from the moment you met them--Rachel, Danielle, Syneva, while other people, for one reason or another just sort of remain on the periphery--people I nod to, or smile at, but rarely actually sit down and talk to.
At 8:00, I went to RUF. The meeting was truncated this evening because Mr. K, the RUF leader, had to go somewhere. Rachel happened to be there, which was unusual since she usually goes to a different Bible study on Tuesday nights, so we stood and chatted for a bit before heading out into the frigid night. She had a calculus project to finish--something about proving theorems with experimentation.
The moon is full tonight, scoured clean by the wind, but the stars and planets, as usual, are drowned out by the city lights. Venus is the only one that shines clearly, undaunted by the lights.
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