Begin. Again.

... a Kindle.

So, we have these friends (who really don't read blogs so it's okay) and they have hit a Marital Rough Patch and have had more than one talk about The Big D. It seems She is not happy with the present way of things and He is perfectly willing to endorse the Status Quo. They both agree She has no hobbies except drinking and hanging out with pals in bars. He, on the other hand, is Mr. Hobby and enjoys all kinds of projects around the house and garden.

So, since they can't agree on how to spend their free time, they have more or less decided to get a divorce. Maybe. (Okay, why not get a hobby? It seems cheaper and less emotionally difficult. SOME people who have had The Big D would just nearly kill to have avoided the pain and suffering... I, for one, might have taken up SwordFighting or even, goddess forbid, Swing Dancing, if I thought it would have helped).

The real question isn't, "should they or shouldn't they?" The real question is about how much the other friends, the ones not in the couple and not in the negotiation, and not in The Big D... how much should those Outsiders talk about all this?

On the one hand, there is genuine love and concern all around. The Friends love one another and do all things social and fun together. No one can figure out which one of the couple to love, or sponsor, or take sides with. No one can figure out if it's okay to not take sides... if it's even possible to not take sides. If we should take sides, even though we haven't a clue about which side to take. No one can even figure out how to love them no matter what, or help them... at least not to both at once, which seems contradictory... but not quite as wrong as it seems to pick one over the other...

To me, it seems like Gossip to even discuss this thing, though here I am writing about it on the f-ing internet. But the idea of calling one of the other friends to discuss this seems mean, cheap, demeaning all around. But I receive the calls (even if I don't make them) and don't always succeed in staying out of the conversation. At gatherings of friends, there is the inevitable (so it seems) talk. You know, the one where we all express concern and affection and love... and then we... GOSSIP.

How can I best be loyal to my friends? How can I honor them both in what I know (personally... painfully) to be a terribly dark time... ???? How can I avoid the Gossip?

I'm still muddling through all this with little of a clue... and the struggle, itself, causes some strain and stress. How to be the best, most loyal friend?

Big sigh.

Late summer is one of the most beautiful times of year up here near the 48th latitude north. As the sun moves south the shadows are long enough that even the windowsills on a nearby building serve as sundials of a sort. The arc of the sun is shorter, making it seem as if time is moving more quickly. Or maybe must move more quickly, since everything that happened two months ago in 14 hours must now take place in 12, at least if light is a factor - gardening, bike riding, being anywhere in the sun.

Sunrise at 6:30 today, sunset at 7:00... and the temperature is still going to move 30 degrees up the scale and back down again in that many hours, just as it does when the days are two hours longer*. Now, though, the starting point can be a comfortable 50-something and the ending point is just plain hot... or it can be 45 degrees just before sunrise and a comfortable 75 just in time for supper on the deck. And the light is - well, it's different. The sky is less intensely blue, the greens are becoming more yellow near the treetops... As I said, the angles of the shadows seem sharper. It's more likely that there will be a breeze.

I always hesitate to say, "it's Fall," until the calendar tells me it can be. That way I can relish a sense that this is summer, too - the season that starts when the spring rains finally end just not long before the 4th of July and ends just about the time the first frost kills the green of the garden. Summer can contain this angled light and these cooler days. But fall is truly in the air - the open bedroom window will be less welcome as these next couple of weeks pass... and the light will keep changing until there's precious little of it, soon enough.

*Well, to be truthful, when the sun is higher and the days are longer, the temperature often moves 40 degrees or more up and down that same scale, making it a wonderful place to sleep and offering incentive to seek shade by early evening.

Every morning on my walk from the parking lot to the building where I work, I walk through an adjacent building to pick up a copy of the New York Times (free, mind you - a perk, if you will, of being 'on the faculty,' as they say).

And... the very first thing I do after settling into my chair... is read as much as I can in whatever time is allowed before alarm bells start clanging in my head about all the work to be done. If I've planned well, I have coffee left in my cup to accompany me as I wander through "All the news that's fit to print."

I can only describe the sentiment that accompanies this habit as smug, defined here as contentedly confident of one's ability, superiority, or correctness. Indeed. I just love reading a newspaper that assumes my intelligence, uses words I occasionally have to look up to understand, calls everyone Mr. or Ms. (no matter what), and headlines articles with humor (Dear Diary: Bitten, And It's No Hickey). Oh, and gets my hands dirty: they still use ink that smudges!

While there's plenty of evidence in every single day that I'm ordinary in almost every way, if not even boring or invisible, when I read the New York Times I feel smart and well-informed. Okay, it doesn't last that long, but I do enjoy feeling... smug.

Okay, it's not original... the title of this post was taken from an ad in the NYT last week - an ad taken out by Workman Publishing to mark the death of Sheila Lukins, one of a duo that I've long thought of as "The Girls." Her full obituary is here. As one of the women (along with Julie Lusso) who created the Silver Palate (and MORE!) she certainly was no mere 'girl,' but the term of affection and admiration stuck and I've thought of Ms. Lukins for years as "One of the Girls."

I've been surprised at the range of emotions Ms. Lukins' death has sparked. As one of the generation of women to whom she directed her work, in her catering work and in her writing, I can honestly say she taught me to cook. Oh, I knew how to prepare a meal well enough, having started at, oh, about age 4 and really gotten my teeth into it by the end of grade school (thanks, dad!). And, yes, I watched read Julia Childs waaaaayyyyy before Miss Julie turned it into a money-making book and film (why, OH! WHY? didn't I think of doing that?). But - she taught me to think differently about flavors and assembling food, and about ingredients, and about presentation, and about playing with food, and about creative memories. From her I got up the nerve to serve Beef Bourguignon for Christmas one year, to flame a turkey the next (much to the puzzlement of my in-laws). From them, from her... I started to care about how food looked and about its FUN quotient.

And with her help, I fed my family, even to the point of disturbing the male head of household who thought I devoted far too much attention and many too many dishes to the preparation of the evening meal. And spurred by her ideas I went on to purchase an additional gazillion (approximately) cookbooks that have guided my culinary adventures. And it was her name I invoked when friends and/or mere guests - on more than one occasion - found my offerings questionable or lacking.

She marked my marriage, too... especially as one of the last activities Mr. J. and I enjoyed as a couple was cooking together and consuming elaborate meals and talking and talking... usually about the safe stuff, but over shared meals, nonetheless.

I never knew her, of course, but I was on intimate terms with her cooking and her way of thinking about flavors and food... and I'll miss her. Aside from the reminder her death offers about my own mortality, about the death of my marriage, and about the importance of food in my life - I'll miss knowing she's out there, thinking up new ways to prepare and offer flavors and foods... and am sad she will not be here to influence the next generation as she did my own.

Here's to you, Sheila!

I swear to god... this just heard outside my office:

Faculty member: So, Steve, where are you from?

Steve: I'm from Holland, the Netherlands.

Faculty member: So are you Dutch?


(I do wish I could have seen the look on the student's face.)
------------------------

As my father used to say, YOU CANNOT MAKE THIS SHIT UP.

Did I mention I don't really like meeting new people? Nonetheless today I opened the office door and entertained a few passers-by, new colleagues. I wish sometimes the world was different so they could ask whatever questions they want, satisfy their curiosity, sit and talk, tell me all I want to know, and move on. Instead there is the awkward sorting out, stilted conversation, laughter we don't mean. It will improve but for now - blechhh!

It was an absolute treat to welcome Ethan, Cori, Emma, and Chris for the weekend. It's an all around joy to watch Ethan and Cori be so in love. They will need this love later to be some of the glue that's necessary to hold the bond when times are tough. (And, though I really hate to think about it, times will be tough at some point. I suspect they'll make it because their relationship seems so grounded in friendship and mutual positive regard.) Ethan is familiar. Cori is new. She makes it easy to be around her, though, with her positive spin on things, her competent and confident communication style, and her natural grace. Thanks, Cori, for being Ethan's wife.

Emma is as delightful as daughters come. It is easy to love her now every bit as much - no, more - than I did when I was braiding her hair and kissing her goodbye in the morning. She is gentle, well-spoken, and so discerningly smart about people and life. I lost her for a while - but now she's found. And I am so very very grateful. Poor Chris was sick... second time to visit, second time to be sick. I don't think I was appropriately prepared (note to self: stock medicine cabinet with all matter of potions and rubs) and he was purely miserable.

The weather was hot. The food was excessive. The drinks cooled us off. The conversation interested us. The presents were fun. The memories weren't too oppressive for those who don't share them (I hope). The beach was perfect. The love was palpable. The friends were - well, friends, which is why I love them so well.

And did I say how loved I felt, as the daughter and mother? Loved and accepted for and in my new life. Ethan said at one point, about my new life circumstances, "I am my mother's son," to which I can only say: thank you, dear one, for learning at least that one lesson so well. I imagine it serves you well away from home - and even better at home. Cori told me at the end that she knew I was happy, as I am. I'm so glad it shows. Emma reminded me how much she trusts me to help her with problems big and small - and I hope I manage that while letting her know I trust her completely.

Through it all, Lori helped me be the hostess, tirelessly cooking, cleaning, hostessing, and being just exactly who she is - my thanks for all of it.

It's funny how the first things I've done have been about nesting. This new space seems like a blank slate a bit - big wide window, open shelves, full-on fabric-covered wall to fill with... what? Of course nesting involves shopping so now there is a new tea kettle, there are office supplies (a perennial favorite), and there are some bright colors. There is food, which of course shouldn't surprise me in the least since that provides some great measure of security right off. Things are wanting but there has been a start.

There was also a meeting with the Associate Dean who will be, I think, my direct supervisor, and with the lead faculty for the teaching group I'm in. It's a large place with many more layers than there were at the old. New connections and a new culture. New rules. New faces. I forget how difficult it can be for me to meet new people. I am awkard, I don't know what to say, I am horrid at small talk, I forget names... it causes stress.

So here is a week to remember... in which L finishes her school work and I commence a new job. Not a new career, because I picked that one at the last spot and worked hard for it, but a changed one... as I am a changed person, as this is a changed life. Fitting to mark this one. Remember. Reflect. Look ahead.

This is a new beginning, then, and maybe what it feels like to begin again. To say I have mixed feelings is to understate. The place is solid. The work will be fine. I have questions about nearly everything but plenty of time to sort through it all.

Beginning here is filled with leaving there. The old job was one I so clearly loved. I imagined myself there forever and ever. I still don't think I know what really happened there but it is done and finished and I need to move on. Well, being here is evidence that I am moving on - at least going through the motions. But moving on is also a long hard look in the mirror... who I am, what path this is, what I am to learn at this juncture. I find I am not yet quite ready to look ahead which is some about still looking backward, a little yearningly, and also about trying to be just here, just now.

What a great ride, this life.

It's hard to miss that tomorrow is Father's Day. The holiday may have been invented to honor fathers... or not. I admit to being a little skeptical, suspecting that commercial interests may have been more central. Surely now it is a commercial enough occasion to be intrusive even though I don't listen to commercial radio or watch TV (much). I WANT to be cynical about it... I WANT to ignore it... I WANT it to be unimportant.

And, in the sense of holiday, I guess I've got my wants. It's nothing I will celebrate. But in an important way the occasion tugs at me, reminding me that I don't have a father to call, or to gift, or who will join me in reminiscing about days past.

But I do have a father. I will always have a father. I will always hold close the man who tended me as a child - and memories of him carrying me, holding me, laughing with and sometimes at me. I treasure knowing he was scary to other kids but that I was always safe with him and understood that the scariness was only for show. I remember the really difficult years even though I am not sure which one of us was most responsible for the troubles. I know that he represented the male perspective in more than one important conversation about my marriage (and suspect he would be disappointed that I could not make it work, no matter how happy he might be at my present good fortune). He held up the bar - and raised it from time to time, yet was always there with clear praise and nearly endless suppport. I have the PhD because of him and delight in sharing the credit with such a fine scholar who had such a wonderful mind.

I miss him every day, or nearly every day. Although when he died I could easily say he knew how loved and needed he was, that we had talked about the tough times and come out on the other side, that he knew that I knew that he was proud of me and I was proud of him... no matter if we were "caught up" about life and perspective (and we were)... I still had things to say, still had experiences to share and will always regret not having these years with him. He would have loved that I finished the PhD, he would love my new happier life, he would be so proud of the children and their personal integrity, their mastery of so many challenges. I am so grateful for the lessons he taught, the support he gave, the love he offered so solidly and consistently.

I am Quentin's daughter.

Thanks, dad.

The door opens, a familiar woman steps out. The words are a quiet victory, "Dr. Fitzgerald, will you join your colleagues?"

After five years and much ado, the doctorate is mine. I did it well and it cannot be taken away. This is one part, "no more teachers! no more books!" - one part humble gratitude for family, teachers and friends - one part big wish a marriage hadn't ended along the way - and a whole lot of uncertainty about whether it will take me anywhere, and if it will, where. There are other parts, of course - I'm sure I'll get to know them soon enough.

Mostly, it's finished, and I'm open to what will be next. As life would have it, the Dean of the College of Nursing of the Acme School of Nursing called about an hour after I first heard, "Dr. Fitzgerald" from someone with the authority to say it. I've been offered a research tenure-track faculty position at a major research university, something only made possible by the doctorate.

Was it worth it? At this juncture I could only say, "mostly," since the journey has taken me far from the safe shore but has also allowed a view of new horizons. Life unfolds.

Carry on.

Yes, today is the day that Tanner was murdered. I haven't lost track of it. It paralyzes me. It can't be fully or entirely dealt with in a day or maybe even a life, and in that sense it is waiting for me, waiting to be contended with. I can't help but wonder how he will find peace, if he will rest, having had such a terrible end. I am certain there will be no peace - and probably not much rest - for his mama Laurie who loved him so very easily and unconditionally - or his dad (whom I didn't really know) for much time to come. The bright boy was loved, in spite of it all. And will be missed, even in a crowded universe.

This brief item appeared in the February 13 edition of the Spokane, WA, newspaper, The Spokesman-Review:

Masked man robs South Hill bank
A man who robbed a South Hill bank Tuesday remains at large.
About 11:45 a.m., a man wearing a flesh-colored mask went into the Washington Mutual Bank at 29th Avenue and Grand and demanded money from a teller, Spokane police Officer Glenn Bartlett said. The robber might have been armed.
The robber was about 5 feet 5 inches tall with average build, police said. He is thought to be in his 20s.
The vehicle he drove off in was found two blocks from the bank in a church parking lot, Bartlett said. The car, a black sedan, possibly a Nissan, had been reported stolen Monday.
Jody Lawrence-Turner

What color IS "flesh-colored," anyway? And why do I think that Ms. L-T meant "white person" flesh and not "brown person" flesh or "asian person flesh" or even "black person flesh?"

For years the American Psychological Association, whose APA style format is de riguer in academic circles as well as many journals, has argued strongly for the removal of bias in language (see the link to various APA sites here. It's noteworthy that the Crayola Crayon Company did away with the color name "flesh" in 1962. It takes discipline and practice to learn to avoid the use of biased language. Undoubtedly none of us is perfect at it. I know I am not. But it's important to try - and to be willing to remind ourselves and one another when we miss the mark.

Lately it's occurred to me that I am really not good at doing a lot of things at once. I don't mean that in a sort of multi-tasking way, although that's also true to some extent in that I can't really do several things in the same time frame. No, I mean that I am not good at things like, say, combining the dissertation and actually living life. It seems that to focus on writing means that I absolutely abandon the gym, knitting, paperwork, house-tending, laundry... even when I am not actually writing, I seem unable to pick these things up. (Quick question: What in the world do I do with all the time I seem to be NOT writing?)
Mind you, I am more or less unemployed. Working two days a week after more than 30 years of full time labor is really a luxury. (Well, given the circumstances under which this particular gift came along, using a word like luxury is a little like saying that being robbed is somehow really in the victim's best interest... might be more accurate to just say that I'm trying to treat this time in my life as if it is at least a little luxurious.) Ahem... at any rate, I don't have anywhere to go four or five days a week. I spend 8-10 hours at the computer and... then what? Can it really be taking me 5 or 6 hours a day to feed myself, bathe, read the paper, and pick up a little knitting? (This does not even consider those days when I do go to work - 9 hours door-to-door, after which I must be either paralyzed or in some kind of fugue state.) Sadly, somehow - it does seem to take just that long... or, wait! Maybe that fugue state idea is more accurate...
I learned long ago that I can't not take time for things my brain wants me to do. Like a badly spoiled child, my right brain just takes over if I have tried to ignore it. First there is a little tantrum of the spirit that involves some whining and kicking of [emotional] feet, then I sort of wake up and find myself in the craft room stamping and gluing or online searching through knitting patterns or in the storage room digging through bins of fabric and yarn. So today, though I started out dutifully enough reading an article or two, I came to in the craft room doing a goofy thing, then went online to Ethan's flickr site and downloaded hopeful little photo; to print for the work-in-progress ATC spinner... all the while fiddling on and off with iTunes and - well, generally advancing the science of not writing my dissertation. Deadline Friday? Ho-hum...

ADDENDUM Ahem! Despite my procrastination, and probably in part because my right brain had a small creative workout (something my sluggish body did not get yesterday), I FINISHED a final draft of the DD and sent it off to my MP. (Trumpets, please!) I know it's not finished - but I advanced it quite far and got some cobwebs out of my brain. I am clear now about things that were muddy not all that long ago... okay, it WAS that long ago...
To celebrate, Lori brought home presents - new Calphalon One baby frying pan and nice brasier - because, as she often says: we love to cook. And because she is both task master and co-celebrant in this dissertation work. I already owe her much for that first bit.

Today is intended to be devoted entirely to the DD... catching up on some reading which has sparked my interest enough to make me think I really just might be able to add these sections that EH wants and move on through the rest of the process. I know enough about myself by now - at least in this work - to know that this is a ploddingly slow step-by-step progression. The goal that seemed so important at one time seems unlikely to be met and I can't quite tell yet where it was I was headed when I opened this particular door. But the brain is occupied - processors running on full.

All the more surprising then, that even though I am distracted by thought, by the work ahead, that just now, sorting through some articles I've just printed, scanning the pages as I sort and staple, I had this one clear thought: I'll call Q and talk with him about this - would love to get his take.

Just like that.

I haven't had a thought of him in the "I have to call my dad right now" kind of way - in years, literally.  Nonetheless, if the thought came unbidden, it was by no means unwelcome. It reminded me of the role he played in the growth and development of my mind. I miss him. I miss the phone conversations. I miss leaning up against the kitchen counter in their house just talking about what had transpired since our last visit. Not the trivia, not the news - the stuff-of-the-mind events. I miss getting back into the same conversation again over the course of each visit, always going a little deeper, knowing I'd revisit that conversation again and again long I'd returned home and started back into the Everyday. Marveling at his intellect, the way he could take ideas he barely understood in any academic sense and relate them to his life experience, to his own academic interests, to what he understood - so that he could contribute to my understanding of something in my world. He legitimized me as a thinker. He made me more real. He gave my bandwidth a boost.

At this point I really do not have anyone in my life who serves as an intellectual sparring partner; that is clear. I know I'll find that person again, especially if I teach, but for now the conversations about obscure intellectual and academic topics take place only in my head where I either talk to myself or conjure up partners for this part of the journey...or take what I can get during occasional (usually all-too-brief) conversations with this person or that. Or, right smack in the middle of getting some real work done for the first time in weeks, I imagine calling my father to see what he'd think - and risk derailing the entire day. Now... let's see... where did I put my glasses? Time to get back on track. 

So Bob invited Lori and me to hang out with him last night at his neighborhood get-together. Amy's out of town and, as we told everyone, it took both of us to replace her. The event, a "Soup Night" get-together for friends, is hosted by Judy and Pete who live down the street from Bob. It's a monthly event for neighbors and friends that has been a tradition for about five years along one little row of houses not far from here. 

The soups were some sort of Mexican chicken soup that looked yummy and a vegetarian pumpkin curry soup that completely captivated me. Judy spent what seemed like the whole evening making and cooking tortillas. It looked easy enough and she managed the task while staying in the conversation of anyone who ventured into her little corner of the kitchen. It was crowded, hot, noisy, and friendly. The food was hearty, warm, delicious. The whole event was also sort of inspirational, as in: we should try that!

Seems we are just blessed with the best friends... Dick, Marg, Arlo, Laurie - and even though Paul is sadly absent, we all play together as often as we can and enjoy it tremendously. I'm not sure really why we've thought we need to add Soup Night to the repertoire. Nothing happens quickly, though, so probably I don't have to worry too much that this will occupy my time beginning anytime soon. Still, it's a good idea - much merit, much potential fun, and a great way to meet neighbors and their friends. mmmmmm.... maybe I will start thinking more seriously about it.

Could we start with African Peanut soup? NOW we're talking...

So I heard today that the rumor going around is that I left Hey!You! because I was having an affair with a married student.

Who are the people who start these rumors - and what do they think such a rumor will accomplish?

Or is it just that I have some real enemy out there who is trying to really f--k up my career? Wow... what a nasty thing to do.

Eh?

Right... it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the pattern here. Check out the dates of the entries... almost all from January and February of the past 2 years. Makes me wonder if I can keep it up this year, even.

The blog idea is an interesting one... something like: translate those long internal conversations into prose so others who know you (and maybe even some who don't) will know you better. It's more difficult to put that into action: busy-ness factors in, of course, but that's trivial compared to some other important notions: who in the WORLD cares what I have to say, anyway; can I really write my own truth in a way that EVERYONE who might happen upon this will understand?

This last bit is important. For example, Ethan mentioned to me that the situation I faced in leaving GeeYou was something worth blogging about... but I am just SO not sure I would ever be able to manage that in a way that would be fair all around, allow me to say my entire truth, and be at once believable and understandable to anyone who might happen upon this. For now, it stays un-blogged, but in some important way feeds the interest in returning here to try again - just in case I could use this as a place to lay down some truth.

As for the Girl Child, spoken of elsewhere on this blog as the cause of a broken heart... yes, she is well and more than worthy of mention. True: hearts mend, children grow, and she has become a good friend. Today she sent Thom this email:

I ended up checking my email and writing to you again because I wanted to tell you that I won something at work the other day. I had a secret shopper that I apparently did REALLY well with. I got a gift card and a little pin. It's kind of dumb. I'm happy about it though. Some days it's really hard to be nice to stupid people. I guess I'm proud of myself for having the self control to be nice to people on a regular basis. So, I just wanted to tell you that. It's all about the little victories!

To which I can only say: Good On, Emma Rose! It IS all about the little victories. Good On.