A Little More Me. A Little Less You.

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So there was this night that a 16-year old was driving. It was dark, because it was night. This was a while ago. The 16-year old did not have her headlights on. Which caused a police officer to pull her over.

He asked to see her license. She obliged.

“Did you know you were driving without your lights on?”

“No, sir.” Pause for consideration. “I'm sorry. But don't worry, there are streetlights. I could see fine.”

Luckily, the police officer was kind and did not penalize the 16-year old idiot with a ticket.

Less happily, the girl was an idiot. Clearly.

Headlights are really not about helping the driver be able to see. They're really much more about permitting others to be able to see the driver.

Say this really happened to a certain person a long time ago. Say this person was driving a blue Cutlass Ciera with a Beatles tape in the cassette player. Say this really happened.

I can assure you, it did.

The 16-year old will grow up. For some strange reason, she'll remember the night she drove without her headlights. She will remember the night she said, all wide-eyed, “gosh, officer, no problem because I can see.”

Lord.

16-year olds grow up. Thank God. And then, then, they occasionally remember things like this and they realize: well, you know. It would have been nice if, at 16, or now, or sometime, my life didn't revolve around me. What was so wrong with me, that my concern was with me?

Well, unlike the city streets, which I really could see just fine, thanks, what I could not see– with or without headlights– was how self-centered the view of the streets and world I had.

After all, I meant no harm. I still don't.

But even now, many moons past 16 and that Cutlass Ciera (though never Norwegian Wood or My Michelle), it worries me that, more frequently than I would like, my thoughts are of the “don't worry, I can see just fine” variety. I would rather be thinking of “how well can you see?” and “can everyone see okay?”

Life is funny. It's my life and my work and my bills and my worries. My life.

My blog and my stupid memories.

When what matters is “we” and “us” and “you” and “everyone.”

A little less me. A little more you.

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Sunday Short

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From the Sunday Indianapolis Star: “One by one, homes are sinking in subdivision.” No one understands why multiple homes are suddenly sinking into the ground but officials “believe water that has bubbled to the surface is playing a role…Nobody can explain why suddenly there is plentiful water atop the hill in a county with groundwater shortages.”

Where, you ask, is this unfortunate subdivision, this mysterious and inexplicable water?

Lakeport. In Lake County, California.

Nary a Flea: The Things We Leave Behind

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To Market, To Market, To Buy a Fresh Flea…

Greenwood Red and I went and “did” brunch. Then we went to purchase nine (nine!) bales of very-exciting straw for my very-exciting straw-bale garden project (I hope it will look like this when it's done, only with vegetables).

So, since we were feeling all suburban and adult by doing both brunch and the hardware store on a Saturday, we thought we'd cap it off with a walk-through of the flea market.

Which was profoundly entertaining. It was a virtual feast, a garden of earthly delights, the detritus and ephemera of people's lives— plus the bizarrely and blatantly questionable attempts by someone (but who?) to make a quick buck in the most delightful and/or peculiar of ways.

Items One Can Purchase at the Flea Market, if One Should Desire to Do So:

A glass Mrs. Butterworth bottle, minus the syrup, cap, and label. This will set you back $3.00.

A piano, without strings. Or keys. Price unknown.

Ziploc bags filled with hotel toiletries, some of which also included a (hopefully) clean pair of socks. ($1.00 per. Get 'em before they're gone. Best Western soaps are hard to come by.)

Ziploc bags filled with unwanted, mixed-up Keurig coffee pods. Cheaper than any Keurig pods from anywhere else. But mostly decaf. Also, still in Ziplocs from someone's kitchen table somewhere. (In my heartless estimation, this would be a questionable purchase.)

Still in pristine boxes: the Disneyland “Monorail” board game and, its brother, the Disneyland “Frontierland” board game. These were shrink-wrapped, probably dated to the opening of the original park, pre-frozen Uncle Walt, and were $22.00 each.

A bedazzled sugar canister. (As in, someone literally took their sugar canister and hot-glued plastic rhinestones to the surface.) $10.00.

A Flowbee. Not bedazzled. Definitely well-used, but still with the original, if battered and dog-eared, box.

Pirate, sea-farer, and other-masculine-weathered-male ceramic mugs (Captain Kangaroo?). Perfect for one's morning cuppa, shared with two friends.

Very popular at the flea market: Patently Obvious Dollar Store/Tree/General merchandise: kitchen spices, feminine products, baby lotion, deodorant, gift bags, and pens. Fair warning: these cost about $1.50 to $2.00 each— because they have that flea market cachet added on now.

Miscellaneous jewelry, beads, magnets, fishing lures, buttons, and (?) in Ziplocs. (Ziplocs are very popular in the flea-market world. You can buy a bag of almost anything– a bunch of tangled anythings– in a Ziploc at the Flea Market.)

Used hats. (Prices vary. Wash in very hot water.)

Still-in-shrink-wrap but clearly aged candy– in large quantities. Like, as in, 36 packs of that gum they don't make anymore; that gum with early '90's popular font. But hey, 36 packs of old gum (new! in package!) for $3.90. Helluva deal.

Dolls. An abundance of dolls. Very, very creepy dolls.

Also, clown dolls. Even more creepy. (Greenwood Red says clowns are fun. Greenwood Red is sadly mistaken.)

A picture frame with someone's family photo still inside– from not very long ago. (This made me sad.)

A 1960 yearbook from a local high school. Reasonably priced at $25.00. (This also made me sad.)

A test missile (seriously). For $33.00.

Fine Art– actual paintings. Priced to support the artist's ego and your budget. Perfect for hanging above a fireplace:

Star Trek, Next Generation figurines (still in battered packages): Picard as Borg, Guinan, Wharf as Cowboy.

The same Lite Brite in the same box that I had as a child and that's still in my Dad's shed, waiting on me to retrieve it (Oh, I will, little buddy, believe me, I will): $30.00.

Two church pews. Not including hymnals. Sadly.

A suit of armor. (It's not real. Don't get excited. I'm an art history major and I checked it up-close. It's real metal, but it's not old; it's certainly not authentic. 'Course, the multiple-different centuries all mixed-up in one suit probably told you that.) Only $259.00 though. Not bad. Plus, it is still a suit of armor.

Samurai swords. $10 to $30 each. Also not real.

Dream-catchers of all sizes.

Chipped mugs, stained bedding, broken music instruments, sheet music, stained and matted stuffed animals. Children's clothes.

An entire corner filled with 20 to 30 vacuum cleaners. (Plug it in before you buy. All sales are final. Bonus: some of the canisters hadn't been emptied…possible treasure surprise!)

Hair clips! $1.00 each. Hot-glue, free time, and a penchant for crochet. Let no one tell you entrepreneurship is dead in America. It's alive and well at the Flea Market.

Vinyl records, cassettes, VHS tapes.

Suspicious laptops and computers. (MacBook Air for $349. Virus included!)

A shrunken head.

A circa 1901 wooden wheelchair. (This was both sad and creepy.)

A china plate with dogs playing poker painted on it. (It's possible that this came home with Greenwood Red and me.)

Salt-and-pepper caddy shaped like a horse.

The thing about a flea market: no fleas, no ant farms, no animals. (It could have used some cats, if you ask me.)

The other thing about a flea market… some of these things, these objects, you just know they've all got a story to tell. They all came from somewhere. Whose kitchen table was graced with that horse? Whose Christmas holiday was enlivened by that big felt thing with sparkles? Whose yearbook was that?

And how did it end up here, on these shelves, in these Ziplocs, jumbled together with big-eyed owl cookie jars and broken bits of clip-on jewelry, and outgrown children's clothes?

Who chose the scary clown? Who loved it?

Who sat in that chair? Played that broken flute?

Who drank from that mug and why did they pick that one out in the first place?

 

And do they still enjoy country music?

It just makes you look at your life, at your stuff: what do you have, what does it say, and will it end up in a flea market, jumbled with old Avon bottles (Bird of Paradise!) and memories. And will someone else like it too? When it can't be with you anymore, will someone else take it home to live with them?
And so many people, so many hands, so many lives– where did they go to; what stories would these things tell?
I do not know. There were no fleas to get in my ear.

Books for Girl-Children

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The Sunday Indianapolis Star generally leaves me a little blue (Gannett and their weekly fluff-and-stuff) but today, it seemed a little more sad than usual. Today it announced that children's book author E.L. Konigsburg had passed away (see page A21). For those who've never heard of her, she was a Newbery Medal Winner, and the author of one of my favorite all-time kids' books: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, a book which retains its charms even to an adult reader. Now that I think about it, there's probably a very tiny fraction of my highly-impractical Art History degree that I might owe to Claudia, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the late Ms. Konigsburg.

In memory and honor of E.L. Konigsburg, I thought I'd post some books I hope kids still read, skewed toward the feminine– or at least, a list of books it would be a shame if no kid looks at anymore. The list, generally speaking, is probably geared for ages 6-12, though some will be a little younger or older. And heck, if your girl-children (or boy-children) won't read 'em, some of you adults may enjoy reading or re-reading them (many of them are, well, very fast reads).

The Books:

Alcott, Louisa May. Little Women. (1868) Despite my heartless fourth-grader teacher's statement that it was a poor book report choice because it's “too sweet,” this is a really great book. Sentimental, yes. Sweet, yes. But not saccharine.

Burnett, Frances Hodgson. A Little Princess. (1905) Also, The Secret Garden. (1909-1911)

Cleary, Beverly: Actually, for this one, not a book, but many. Otis Spofford, Ellen Tebbits, Henry Huggins, Henry and Ribsy, Mitch and Amy, and all the Beezus/Ramona books. She wrote prolifically, from the silly (the Ralph-mouse-motorcycle things) to the serious (Dear Mr. Henshaw). Like most of the other books on the list, these books will seem dated, but that's okay. The heart is solid.

Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. (1908)

Konigsburg, E.L. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. (1967)

Lowry, Lois. Anastasia Krupnik. (1979).

Montgomery, Lucy Maud. Anne of Green Gables. (1908) And also, Emily of New Moon (1923), The Story Girl (1911), and Chronicles of Avonlea (1912).

Raskin, Ellen. The Westing Game. (1979) Smart, funny, fast, with a surprisingly moving finish.

Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter. All of 'em.

Sainte-Exupéry, Antoine de. The Little Prince. (1943)

Sendak, Maurice. Where the Wild Things Are. (1963) Every full moon I've ever seen since reading this book has made me think of it. Happily.

Speare, Elizabeth George. The Witch of Blackbird Pond. (1958). I actually re-read this one a couple years ago and it was sadly disappointing to my grown-up eyes. However, to an 8 or 9 year old child, I think it would still be interesting. (I still remember how exotic and new the book seemed as a kid, with “Barbados,” the sea, and peacock-blue kid slippers. Not to mention, reading it young adds a new dimension to the primary school Thanksgiving lessons and primes one a little bit to middle-school readings of colonial history into The Scarlet Letter and The Crucible).

Streatfeild, Noel. Ballet Shoes. (1936)

Honorable Mentions: White (Charlotte's Web), Wilder (The Little House books), Paterson (Bridge to Terabithia), Woolley (Ginny Joins In), Parish (Amelia Bedelia series), Lindgren (most famous for Pippi Longstocking but I always preferred Mischievous Meg)

(Illustration: Mary Engelbreit)

Trying to Find It

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Part I: Wish I believed in Something.

So, my wrist is wrecked. Temporarily and all. Ravaged by years of sewing very fine fabric with even finer thread coupled with incessant typing. And then, then, a weekend of hyper-aggressive yard work. I was a beast, lifting 20 pound bags of soil, thinking not of ergonomics and safety, but only of “get the good dirt to the bad dirt. Pull!” And there was the enthusiastic wielding of the industrial-strength shovel.

Yes, Dad, I still have that. Thank you for lending it to me. Three years ago. I really appreciate it. I love that shovel.

So consequently, a week and a half later, my wrist is wrapped in white tape, like a gymnast’s or something really spectacular.

And I can’t essentially do a damned thing with my left hand. Ta very much, repetitive motion tendinitis. You’re awesome. Also, you hurt just a very little bit.

I don’t mind the wrist thing. It’s what it is. I tape it up and keep typing and generally, do more with my right hand, which is a real trouper. I’m grateful, as ever, that the good lord didn’t, as yet, give me more to bitch about.

But it’s had a weird side effect in its most recent incarnation. If I upset family or anyone else with what I’m about to say, I really am sorry (let me know, I’ll take down the post and hopefully you will forget I ever wrote it).

And also, for those who believe what I’m about to very publicly say I do not, I also apologize. I don’t think I’m right. I don’t think you’re wrong. The last thing I want is to offend anyone. So pre-blog apologies all around.

My wrist thing…the white bandage… it reminds me at times, as I’m fumbling with a key, bag, or coffee cup, it reminds me of my Papaw, my grandpa.

See, before the cancer ravaged his colon, it hit his arm first. The wonders of late ’80′s medicine were such that they chopped out some nerves and tendons in his arm and then gave him a brace so he could operate his fingers. (See, apologizing again. This is painful and a little graphic. I don’t know he would like it, that I’m writing about his brace and putting my thoughts online. Apologies. Seriously.)

This was no mean bit of white tape wrapped all Nadia-like around his wrist. This was a spider made of paper clips. It was a metal praying mantis. It was a puppeteer’s strings, linked to every finger with slender metal jointed pieces: like pipe organs, like Edward Scissorhands, like Rube Goldberg designed a wrist brace with metal finger trusses and then added some hinges and joints so it wouldn’t seem so simple.

And my Papaw, my sweet Papaw, wore all that so he could move his fingers.

Without complaint. At least, not within my hearing.

But there’s something in the bandage, something in my fumbling, which have brought this to mind as though it were yesterday. I can see him, in this thing on his arm. He sits calmly at the dining room table and, with the mobility provided by the metal prongs, applies his Chap Stick after dinner.

He really liked Chap Stick.

And I think about him. And I both curse and bless the memory that’s nearly tactile; that causes me to be able to smell the clean bandages, the Chap Stick; to hear the clicking of the metal pieces, and viscerally to be able to see the movements that happen– but not without the metallic medical assistance.

And I think (among a great many other things; including that “how selfish of me, who the hell cares what I think when people get cancer and go through all that: Shut Up, Michelle”): I wish I believed in something.

Specifically, I wish that I could be sure, in the way some people are sure, that we go on and we go on with some knowing sentience about the people we left behind, the people who love us still.

I really want to believe that my Papaw, our Papaw, knows– really, really knows– that he’s still remembered; that, believe it or not, he’s not remembered for the metal monster but the bravery that accompanied it, for the fact that he loved my earrings one time because they had “ice blue” hearts; that he colored a coloring book dachshund with the bittersweet crayon because “what other color would they be?”

I want him to know he’s remembered. I want him to know that he’s missed beyond belief. That every May 19th brings sadness because that’s the damn day. I want him to know every May 13 that there’ s a mental cake that is built for him. I want him still to be connected in a very real way– him, not his body, not his brace, not the goddamned cancer. I frequently want his advice, his humor, his company.

I will accept that I can’t access those things. But to accept that they just exist no longer is a bit much.

And yet…

I can’t believe in heaven. I can’t believe in continued knowing existence.

I want to, very much.

I want to believe; I want to know, that not only do we go on, with resolution (you, my child, did okay with what you knew and what you had. It was a test. You may not have passed but you didn’t quite fail. It was a really hard test) but we go on, still, with connection to those that join us, those that preceded us.

I want to think that my Papaw welcomed his parents to wherever “there” is.

I want to think that he knows what we know and he’s just waiting for us: not the physical, but the part of him that is actually him.

And someday, I’ll go there, and I will be greeted and I will be waiting and I will know, too, just what it was all for, and more importantly, I’ll be able to see the ones I love so very much. All of them. And we’ll be aware enough to know one another, to remember.

And…

I believe in, well, nothing.

I know what I want. I know there’s nothing to suggest what I want is true, which does not mean it isn’t; it just means we can’t know it in the same way we know other things.

And, for the way my self seems to be constructed, well, I can’t know and I know damned well I can’t know.

And so.

My desire is not enough to be faith.

My desire is not enough to be truth. My desire is faulty. My knowledge too limited. My awareness that what is true doesn’t mean it has to be literal and vice versa…

all of it conspires to make me a person who believes only that we (I) cannot know and anything is possible.

In some senses, I believe in everything. Which is to believe in nothing.

And it is not the most comforting non-belief system to be a part of.

There’s no wisdom to this story. There’s quite a bit of embarrassment and humility. If, tonight, you have faith, I hope you find comfort in it. I hope you are right.

And I find myself wishing I were one among you, questioning what it is in my make-up which prevents me having certainty on anything, defying comfort, no matter how hard it is hoped for.

I’ll keep questioning and guessing, hoping I hit on the faith-formula that somehow sticks, but I doubt that it will ever come.

Still, I’ll keep searching. And if you haven’t found your truth just yet, I will hope you find yours, too.

We do what we do here and it matters.

But I wonder, oh, I wonder: what comes next?

Saturday Round-Up (#Hashtag News, Second Helping)

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Yeah, I'm not touching Boston, Texas, ricin, China's earthquake, gun law reform, chained CPI, or immigration reform today.

I'm thinking about those things– and a host of others– but I'm not touching them in this post.

Welcome to Saturday. I'm, erm, percolating on a number of things and would rather not write until said things are fully, well, brewed.

So, what that leaves me with is random bits of the following (oh, you lucky three blog-readers, you):

#MadGEDSkills

The Indianapolis Star and the Washington Post, in an Associated Press article, on Monday, April 15, reported that some states are dropping the GED because the new, digital-based replacement in many states is too expensive and too onerous on test-takers than the previous paper-based GED. This may be a fair point. Those seeking the GED are, generally speaking, probably going to find the $140 fee for the new GED a little steep (at minimum wage, that would be 70-plus hours; difficult to manage when minimum wage keeps a person in American-style poverty). But on top of that, some of the test-takers are expressing concern with the computer-based format of the new GED. “You've got to learn how to type, use the computer, plus your GED. That's three things instead of just trying to focus all on your GED test,” said one test-taker, a mother of three.

Here's the thing: one could argue that the typing, the familiarity to use a computer to take the test– these actually are, now, skills that are themselves part of General Educational Attainment. At this point, you basically have to apply online at little computer kiosks for the most entry-level of entry-level positions at Target, Walmart, Kroger. Putting pen to paper is increasingly less useful in terms of getting a job, with or without a GED.

First-graders, second-graders are expected to be able to hunt-and-peck words on a keyboard. They can certainly answer test questions that don't come on pristine white sheets.

In some ways, it is completely appropriate that the GED is moving to an exclusively electronic format: it is a basic level skill, the ability to communicate by and navigate the medium. Maybe, arguably, you should not in this century and at this time, be able to earn a GED without being able to demonstrate a modicum of digital practical ability.

It's part of what should earn one the right to say one has a GED, if a GED is to have any meaning.

Now, that would include: incorporating basic computing skills into the GED curriculum (good god, is it really not?) and not charging extra or, say, more than a week's worth of minimum-wage pay for the actual test (though, maybe it should cost something so as to be worth something, but that's a different debate) just because it's not on paper.

Reading the article, in this strange tango between GED test takers, states, and the educational assessment industry, it's difficult to think the only people who are coming out ahead in the entire world of GED-ness aren't the inventors and peddlers of “alternative” tests. Because, earned digitally or on paper, a GED is necessary without being especially helpful in the long-term; the tests are not the point so much as the educational attainment and skills represented (again, a different debate)– but somehow, one can't help but feel, none of it matters in the face of the profits to be gained by the lower-priced alternatives developed by Educational Testing Services and CTB/McGraw-Hill.

#KidsTheseDays

“I hit him,” said the sixteen-year old, “because he was the closest teacher, and I was mad…I got in trouble yesterday for talking back…and wearing some jewelry. When I got home, my mom took away my Xbox, my Beats, and my cellphone…I was mad because all my stuff was taken away.”

The sixteen-year-old in question clocked a teacher in the face.

Well, in fairness, it does really, really suck when your mom takes away your $90 dollar headphones.

[Grimace.]

So…this was the same week in the greater Indianapolis area as a 15-year old torched a teacher's car and (AND!?!?) a ninth-grader punched another teacher's jaw so severely the recovery time is 6 weeks long.

But let us focus instead on teacher assessments and needing to attract the “best and brightest” in the need for educational reform.

After all, the responsibility for the entirety of the educational problems in the U.S. should clearly be laid at the feet of our teachers– but just the grossly inadequate ones.

Who may or may not be in need of dental work, reconstructive surgery, and/or a rental car.

(And seriously, $90 dollar-plus headphones? What the hell is your kid listening to that he needs costly sound- definition and noise-canceling technology? Please tell me it's at least news or really good music and not total crap. And if he's going to face-plant a teacher at the loss of them, please tell me that this year's birthday gift will be Anger Management Counseling. Or, what the hell, a circa-1989 Discman with $3 Radio Shack headphones. Maybe your kid's just got a little too much to lose. At 16. Headphones?)

#GrosslyNeeded

I propose a program, let's call it “PATCH.” This program would assist citizens applying for benefits (unemployment, SS Disability, VA, TANF, SNAP, housing assistance): it would help direct them to the correct benefit program based on need and eligibility and expedite the process when the need is severe.

I think of it as “Public Assistance to Coordinate Help.”

In my head, it would fill the “holes” between benefit programs and direct people in need to the programs that could actually assist them. It would help benefit workers (and people) by coordinating the various programs so people in need no longer fall between the cracks.

This should exist, but doesn't. Paging a state rep or senator, a grant program, or a fed rep…

People need help, sometimes immediately, and they're getting lost in a sprawling, confusing tangle of state and federal benefits, a wide and equally confounding array of agencies and acronyms. We'd be doing good deeds to assist them. We'd be saving money, labor, and time by directing them to correct programs effectively.

So why aren't we?

#SaveOurFarmland

Further, on domestic policy, I'm still concerned about all this farmland that's for sale, zoned “commercial.”

The flooding of the past week in the Midwest, the increased focus on climate change and “global weirding,” the fact that foreign countries have been spending their free time in the past 6 or so years purchasing acres in Illinois, Missouri, Indiana so as to have farmland in reserve…

I've written before about it, but I'm saying it again:

I do not think it's a good idea to sell off every spare inch of farmland. I do not think it's a great idea to not have farmland in reserve. Just because productivity per acre is high now does not necessarily mean it will be permanently so. And if productivity per acre falls (too much or too little water, bad weather, genetic adaptation, will of the gods, whatever), it might be good to have a couple acres of beautiful, fertile Indiana soil in the pocket and not, say, tied up in yet another strip mall or slab-based-if asthetically-pleasing and multi-roofed suburban housing division.

So can some trust or government or do-gooder purchase some of this beautiful farmland that's continually, daily put on the market for commercial use? And then just let it be? Just in case?

#HighMaintenance

I'm a fan of women, generally speaking. My god, I am one, myself. But.

Some of them are high-maintenance in ways that know no expression and surpass belief.

One of these was strikingly on display at the snack shop the other day.

Here is she, curly-haired, with Friend. She is buying the 85 cent bag of popcorn. She is not just walking away with it, as one would think she'd be doing. No.

She is stopping, at the end of the counter (impeding progress of anyone else, even if anyone else is holding their 32-ounce coffee and ready to fly past her, if only they could), to ask for a bowl. A free bowl. Or two.

Why?

So she can test out the various versions of free cheese powders on a handful of kernels before sprinkling these cheesy accoutrements on the entire 85-cent bag.

No hurry.

High maintenance women. Sheesh.

And then there's Cookie, as I called her. She came running, sprinting, back to the snack shop because her chocolate-chip walnut cookie wasn't hot when she ate it.

What?

It's Otis Spunkmeyer; the little rack says they're baked fresh daily, which they are. And Cookie raised hell in the snack shop because her cookie was not hot.

There was no sign, no slogan, no anything that should have implied to her that it might be or should be.

High Maintenance Woman.

Holding up all the rest of us god-fearing, black-coffee-drinking, non-cookie-eating people.

And getting multiple free cookies just so she would go away.

Ah, womanhood, what have you become?