Today, while sitting at my post at the OES rummage sale, a family came by. They came by in various configurations. First the mother with the 4 week old infant. Then the father with the 5-6 year old child. Then the mother with both children. Then the father with the boy again.
The child was...moderately ill-mannered, but I've seen far worse. Very careless of the objects he was investigating (I was manning the bake sale/kids toys table venue). The child picked things up, threw them down, a bit too violently or casually for someone like me who has well-loved and much-used toys and clothing from 45 years ago that are still in "nearly new" condition because I was taught to be careful of objects, clothing, people, and myself.
So the boy starting looking at the books, and decided he wanted the dinosaur book. The father took it from him to inspect it and make sure it was suitable (the book was something like The Mightiest Dinosaur, written for kindergartners/first graders). So dad is reading it, and says "Well, that's a lie." Turns another page. "Another lie." He then explains to me that "...all of that stuff about dinosaurs and extinction is a lie. They didn't die from some inability to survive in a changed environment. Humans hunted them to extinction." So then he tells me about this Eskimo carving of men hunting dinosaurs "that I have seen myself," and about carvings in the Yucatan Peninsula from only 1000 years ago showing people hunting a dinosaur, "So people were hunting dinosaurs as recently as 1000 years ago."
Then he explained to me that the world can't be millions of years old, citing Einstein and how the circumference of the sun reduces by 5 inches every year, and that if the earth and the sun were as old as evolutionists claim we would have been occupying the same physical space. And then he brought in the moon, which is moving away from us at "X" [I forget the number he gave] inches per year, "and if the earth was as old as evolutionists claim then the gravitational pull of the moon when it was as close to the planet as it would have had to have been then would have been so strong that it would have ripped our entire atmosphere away. And that is why my son doesn't go to public school--because they teach him all those lies which science proves are lies." Then he started to go on about this tail on bacteria "(that is only visible with an electron microscope) that rotates at 40,000 rpms," and how you couldn't make pulleys and gears to do that, but fortunately his son was getting restive, and the baby had woken up, and the wife wanted to feed the baby. But his son really wanted two books. The dinosaur book, and another one.
"No. You can't have them." Looks again. "Wait, maybe this one." So he took the other book, looked at it, flipped through it. "How much?"
"Twenty-five cents."
"Okay," and starts to hand it to the child, then stops. "Oh, wait." Turns to the wife. "Do we have this one?"
"Yes. Well, no. The one we have has scratch and sniff pages. So not that book. But that story."
He turns to the boy. "We have this at home. Why do you want it?"
"The other one has smells, but not this one."
"Okay. For 25 cents you can have it." And they walked away with the book. Without paying.
And the book it was okay to have, because it didn't have any lies?
It was about a talking rat, who saves a chef's career in a French restaurant in Paris. Ratatouille.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Three Hours
Last week, during my office hours, my office mate Roman was also holding his. Roman is first generation American (his parents both emigrating from Mexico before he was born), raised Mormon, and grew up in southern California. We were sitting there, he checking his email, me grading papers, doing that before I turned on the computer, since I know what a brain suck that can be. He turned his desk chair so it faced me and said, "Can I ask you a question?"
"This has come up before when we've gotten one of those 'sad news' emails, but, well, I just don't understand what exactly is "calling hours" and how does one behave...what does one do?"
What followed was a conversation where he learned about mourning customs and public bereavement here in the Northeast, and I learned about how things are done in the Southwest, or, as he put it, "at least, in California." And then a bit about how things are done in Catholic Mexican immigrant families (some of his childhood friends). And since I'd used Morguhn's service as an example, what is specific to a Mason's service and burial, which led to what is specific to a Mormon rite.
I think we tend to assume that we "know how it's done," if we're "American," but as we both learned--we don't. I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
And then Roman told me about the specific email that had led to his original question.
Ever since I've been on the faculty, one of the most kind, supportive colleagues I've had is Tim. He's one of the dramatically oversized people who elicits the "Oh, Tim, please lose some weight--we don't want to lose you" kind of thought in those he works with. But, of course, he never does. When his middle daughter, Elizabeth, was working on her nursing degree he put us in contact because she was doing a paper on fairy tales, and he knew I did a focused unit on fairy tales and asked if I could help her.
About two years before Morguhn died, he lost his wife, Susan. Susan had been ill for many years, in ways that traumatized her family, that exhausted Tim, and broke everyone's heart. She fought her demons for years, but finally she lost her battle. When Morguhn died Tim didn't come to the calling hours, but after I came back to work, he stopped and talked to me, calmly, with compassion and the kind of understanding I needed. "No one else 'gets it,' Rosemary, except those who have gone through it. I didn't, before I lost Susan. No one can say anything to make it better. But I get it." And we walked our separate ways, on to our classes.
Tim retired last month. Between his time as a public school teacher, and his time at the college, he had more than his 30 years in. He'd met someone, a wonderful guy who lives down near Ithaca, and was moving down there, and teaching online as an adjunct retired faculty for MV. He'd finished improving his house, so Elizabeth would have a warm, safe home to live in, as she was going to stay in the house they were sharing; his last chick to leave the nest was going to keep the nest he was leaving. He looked so good last month--his color good, a spring in his step to the extent his health allows.
Sunday, Elizabeth complained that she wasn't feeling too well. When she woke up Monday morning she was feeling even worse, frighteningly worse. Tim drove her to the hospital.
Three hours later she was dead.
Pulmonary embolism.
I went to the calling hours today. I knew, given when I could be there, that I would miss all the MVCC people, who would be there in the first hour. But Tim is one of those people who just wrapped himself around my heart, and I needed to go. So I went.
I knew no one. I stood there, after looking at the photographs of the girl I only knew through emails, of their family, intact. At adults I knew must be his children, but who I didn't know, and didn't know me. So I went and stood where Tim could see me, and listened as he talked to others. "About the only thing that could have been faster is if she'd been hit by a bus," he said with the wry humor that is actually a substitute for wails of grief. And then a pause. A look down. "I...don't know....I'll still processing Susan's death..." in a slightly puzzled, lost voice, still with all the music it always carries, but in a minor, diminished key. He held out his hand, and I took it. He squeezed it hard, as he kept talking to the people I didn't know. I leaned over and laid my cheek against his and kissed it. Then I stood, gave his hand another squeeze, and then left. I didn't say a word, and neither did he.
At times like these, I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
"This has come up before when we've gotten one of those 'sad news' emails, but, well, I just don't understand what exactly is "calling hours" and how does one behave...what does one do?"
What followed was a conversation where he learned about mourning customs and public bereavement here in the Northeast, and I learned about how things are done in the Southwest, or, as he put it, "at least, in California." And then a bit about how things are done in Catholic Mexican immigrant families (some of his childhood friends). And since I'd used Morguhn's service as an example, what is specific to a Mason's service and burial, which led to what is specific to a Mormon rite.
I think we tend to assume that we "know how it's done," if we're "American," but as we both learned--we don't. I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
And then Roman told me about the specific email that had led to his original question.
Ever since I've been on the faculty, one of the most kind, supportive colleagues I've had is Tim. He's one of the dramatically oversized people who elicits the "Oh, Tim, please lose some weight--we don't want to lose you" kind of thought in those he works with. But, of course, he never does. When his middle daughter, Elizabeth, was working on her nursing degree he put us in contact because she was doing a paper on fairy tales, and he knew I did a focused unit on fairy tales and asked if I could help her.
About two years before Morguhn died, he lost his wife, Susan. Susan had been ill for many years, in ways that traumatized her family, that exhausted Tim, and broke everyone's heart. She fought her demons for years, but finally she lost her battle. When Morguhn died Tim didn't come to the calling hours, but after I came back to work, he stopped and talked to me, calmly, with compassion and the kind of understanding I needed. "No one else 'gets it,' Rosemary, except those who have gone through it. I didn't, before I lost Susan. No one can say anything to make it better. But I get it." And we walked our separate ways, on to our classes.
Tim retired last month. Between his time as a public school teacher, and his time at the college, he had more than his 30 years in. He'd met someone, a wonderful guy who lives down near Ithaca, and was moving down there, and teaching online as an adjunct retired faculty for MV. He'd finished improving his house, so Elizabeth would have a warm, safe home to live in, as she was going to stay in the house they were sharing; his last chick to leave the nest was going to keep the nest he was leaving. He looked so good last month--his color good, a spring in his step to the extent his health allows.
Sunday, Elizabeth complained that she wasn't feeling too well. When she woke up Monday morning she was feeling even worse, frighteningly worse. Tim drove her to the hospital.
Three hours later she was dead.
Pulmonary embolism.
I went to the calling hours today. I knew, given when I could be there, that I would miss all the MVCC people, who would be there in the first hour. But Tim is one of those people who just wrapped himself around my heart, and I needed to go. So I went.
I knew no one. I stood there, after looking at the photographs of the girl I only knew through emails, of their family, intact. At adults I knew must be his children, but who I didn't know, and didn't know me. So I went and stood where Tim could see me, and listened as he talked to others. "About the only thing that could have been faster is if she'd been hit by a bus," he said with the wry humor that is actually a substitute for wails of grief. And then a pause. A look down. "I...don't know....I'll still processing Susan's death..." in a slightly puzzled, lost voice, still with all the music it always carries, but in a minor, diminished key. He held out his hand, and I took it. He squeezed it hard, as he kept talking to the people I didn't know. I leaned over and laid my cheek against his and kissed it. Then I stood, gave his hand another squeeze, and then left. I didn't say a word, and neither did he.
At times like these, I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
Monday, May 16, 2011
And then there was one
I just watched the Endeavor lift off.
Last night, during the end credits of Thor I nearly sobbed--you see, the end credits are like flying through shots from Hubble, and because it is 3D, and well done, it was...
I have no words for how it made me feel.
These two things, coming so close together, make me think of a childhood full of Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. Of Enterprise. And Asimov, and Bradbury, and Clark.
And my heart is full, and my head packed with thoughts, and somewhere, way down inside, is anger.
And then there was one.
And then there will be none.
This deserves a long, thoughtful post. But for now, I will borrow words from another:
Last night, during the end credits of Thor I nearly sobbed--you see, the end credits are like flying through shots from Hubble, and because it is 3D, and well done, it was...
I have no words for how it made me feel.
These two things, coming so close together, make me think of a childhood full of Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. Of Enterprise. And Asimov, and Bradbury, and Clark.
And my heart is full, and my head packed with thoughts, and somewhere, way down inside, is anger.
And then there was one.
And then there will be none.
This deserves a long, thoughtful post. But for now, I will borrow words from another:
"Ask ten different scientists about the environment, population control, genetics and you'll get ten different answers, but there's one thing every scientist on the planet agrees on. Whether it happens in a hundred years or a thousand years or a million years, eventually our Sun will grow cold and go out. When that happens, it won't just take us. It'll take Marilyn Monroe and Lao-Tzu, Einstein, Morobuto, Buddy Holly, Aristophanes .. and all of this .. all of this was for nothing, unless we go to the stars."
--Jeffrey Sinclair, "Infection," Babylon 5
J. Michael Straczynski
J. Michael Straczynski
Thursday, November 4, 2010
This is just wrong
As a college professor of writing and research, I am very sensitive to issues of plagiarism and research. As someone who writes, produces course materials, and develops class presentations I am very sensitive to issues of fair use.
So when someone being paid to be a professional in the publishing of documents does something as egregious as publishing, without permission, something found elsewhere on the web, I have some problem with it. When that action is discovered by the original author, and the author contacts the publication, you would expect, at the very least, a sincere apology. Not this. The fact that the author is actually a friend of mine just makes it worse.
But, at least now we have a new word to add to the language.
[Edit added material]
And now, from our friends at The Washington Post.
So when someone being paid to be a professional in the publishing of documents does something as egregious as publishing, without permission, something found elsewhere on the web, I have some problem with it. When that action is discovered by the original author, and the author contacts the publication, you would expect, at the very least, a sincere apology. Not this. The fact that the author is actually a friend of mine just makes it worse.
But, at least now we have a new word to add to the language.
[Edit added material]
And now, from our friends at The Washington Post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
