Learning to Drive July 7, 2009

PART ONE

Farm kids are expected to be good with farm machinery and by extension, driving tractors, trucks, riding lawnmowers, all sorts of vehicles. It was important to farm life to have the participation of all the family members. I don’t recall specifically thinking, “I must have been adopted into this family”, but I did grow up knowing that I would not live on a farm when I grew up.
I look back with nostagia at all the great things about farm life – lying on my back in the grass, finding pictures in the clouds, building snow houses with my brother, gathering a bouquet of lilies of the valley for my Bible school teacher – and then I realize that for every one of those lovely memories there are hundreds more of sweaty days in the field hoeing beans or thinning beets, getting my hands pecked by hens who were reluctant to give up their eggs,always more work to do and not nearly enough time to sit and read. And there were too many nosiy, smelly, scarey vehichles to operate.
The riding lawnmower was the easiest thing to drive. We had great sprawling lawns, bordered by by mom’s colorful flowerbeds of cannas, dahlias, zinnias, marigolds, petunias. The flowers were her passion, and my dad loved them, too. Therefore, the lawn had to be immaculately mowed to show them off. So there was also a self-propelled mower for closer trimming. My brother, a year older, and eventually my younger sisters shared this job The best part was that we could take turns. When it was my bother’s turn I could sit on the porch reading while he mowed.
Driving our rattley old truck in the field was less pleasurable, although the alternative to driving was to walk behind the truck, picking up stones and heaving them onto the truck bed. Or picking up stray sugar beets. But I could drive REALLY slowly, I didn’t have to drive particularly straight, either.
Much worse was cleaning out the chicken house. It involved a small tractor with a blade that pushed the mess out one end of the chicken house where it was loaded into a manure spreader and used for fertilizer in the fields. My dad thought I should be able to manage a small tractor at a slow speed, going in one direction. I hated everything about it – obviously the smell, but also just learning how to operate the tractor. And there was stuff to hit in the chicken house, like walls and posts.
In this rural community, roles were well defined. Families were large by today’s standards, and the sons typically helped the fathers in the fields and barns; the women and girls took care of the household tasks and a huge vegetable garden. My brother, though, was the only son and my sisters and I also did field work, but mostly hoeing, while my brother drove the tractor. The few times my dad tried to teach me to drive a tractor were unsuccessful to say the least. Partly, I’m sure, because I didn’t in the least want to do it. I repeatedly stalled the tractor, not getting the delicate balance needed to shift gears. My dad gave up on my tractor driving, to my immense relief.

PART TWO
The summer I turned fifteen I was signed up for Driver’s Education. This consisted of watching horrible films of car crashes caused by inept drivers, watching somone demonstrate how to change a tire (not actually doing it),making a poster to demonstrate some driving commandment, and, yes, actually driving with an instructor and a couple of other learners.
My dad (see above) was quite aware that I was unprepared for adventures in driving. Not wanting me to star in one of the car crash movies, he took on the task of giving me a few preliminary lessons. We lived at the intersection of two gravel roads, so dad started me off on a nice empty stretch of road between my uncle’s house and ours. Only fields on either side. all I had to do was start the car, put it in drive, step on the gas and steer. Luckily, no shifting was required. I did just fine and dad was starting to relax.
I stopped at the corner and looked carefully both ways.I turned right and drove the short distance to our driveway. I turned in. Although I hadn’t had time to get up too much speed, I didn’t realize how much I needed to slow down before turning into the driveway. I turned sharply,too sharply, nearly hitting a tree on the right. Swerving left, I nearly hit a second, conveniently-located tree. Somehow, using the brake didn’t occur to me,although it’s entirely possible that word was part of what my dad was hollering at me. At last, the car stopped. My dad got out, shaking his head and muttering incredulously to himself.
I did fine in Driver’s Ed; I learned to park going uphill (hard to find in this part of Michigan), turn off the engine, start it up and shift gears without stalling. I learned to parallel park and do three-point turns admirably. But my dad never rode in the passenger seat with me as the driver again.

Cars and Computers June 30, 2009

Cars and Computers

 

My difficulty in adjusting to the culture of technology, my husband tells me, is because I want it to be like driving a car.  I don’t have to know much at all about how a car works for it to do what I want it to do.  I do know it needs gas.  I’ve only run out of gas a couple of times in my life.  I know it needs periodic maintenance, but there’s Jiffy Lube for that.  I know if it’s making a weird noise or certain red lights go on, I’d better get it taken care of.  But mostly, I just drive it.  

When cars first came into general use, people had to know much more about how they operated.  Lots of things had to be worked out before the car became a (fairly) reliable form of transportation.  Much of this “working out” was done by early car owners learning as they went.

I agree that I want computer technology to be similar in that I have certain things I want it to do, and I want it to just do them in a simple and direct way.  That level of user disconnect is not yet here. So to use technology I have to understand something about how it works.  I’ve tried to analyze my aversion. I don’t think it’s that I’m too lazy to learn – I have plenty of energy to learn about things that interest me.  I do get very frustrated when what I want to do doesn’t work.  But when a plant in my garden doesn’t grow, I can usually figure out why and often solve the problem.

In general I don’t like machines much. I would never use a weed whacker or a snowblower.  I do use a power mower but my goal is to have the garden gradually consume the lawn so it’s down to the size I can mow with a reel-type mower.  (This is my dream, not my husband’s.  He likes machines.)  I prefer a whisk or wooden spoon to an electric mixer.  But my main objection to these machines is the noise. And the energy use, but I’ll admit that’s secondary.  However, computers are pretty quiet, so that’s not really the answer.

I’ve always loved going to Cafe Kopi or Panera to read or write.  Beside the cozy atmosphere, there was sort of a low murmer of sound, white noise, that was just right for writing.  Often people were having real conversations. The atmosphere changed when every table and booth became occupied  by individuals with their computers.  In all fairness, I was also a solitary customer, so rationally it would be unfair to object to others being in their own worlds.  

A friend has suggested that I am a tactile person and there is certainly truth in that. If I weren’t so practical I would always wash dishes by hand.  I never use gloves to garden – I like the feel of the earth, the weed I’m pulling up.  There’s just a nice feeling about a sturdy pen in my hand and a legal pad to write on.  I like the physical act of crossing out, adding notes in the margin, tearing out first drafts, crumpling them up in my hand.  And even with the convenience of a laptop, it’s still less cumbersome and more comfortable to use pen and paper.  

In a way it’s like learning another language.  Not only the speciaized terminology, but the way you look at the sceen. I can’t just read from left to write and top to bottom.  I have to scan all sides for relevant information and add new information from elsewhere. Of course many kinds of print material have extras such as footnotes, pictures and captions, glossaries,etc. – but they are all contained within the book and there is no real mystery about where to find that extra material (although there often is for students).  Still, the process is quite different.

I don’t think I’ve solved the mystery although I have some clues.  It’s like the Agatha Christie story, “Murder on the Orient Express”. In the end, (spoiler alert!) all of the suspects had a hand in the murder.

I have decided, though, that I don’t want to be like my friend’s mother who never learned to drive a car.  She was widowed at a fairly young age and had to rely on others to take her where she needed to go.  I’m never going to be an Indy 500 driver, but I’m trying to get where I need to go in the world of computers.  

Brave new wiki June 25, 2009

This is a technique that would certainly appeal to high school students and make them feel like they are doing something real. I also think it calls attention to the need for multiple sources of information in a very immediate sense – the exmple of one student putting in fake info was a great “teachable moment”.  It’s too easy to think that anything “in print” is true. So when students are doing in-depth research projects, you could refer to this incident.

I can see that some students might think it would be fun to mess up other students’ work – more fun than doing the “real” work.

Father’s Day June 24, 2009

. Father’s Day

 

Unlike my husband, I take Hallmark Holidays seriously.  At least some of them. Although technically our sons should be in charge of this, one is in South Korea (he sent an e.mail) and the other is in Brooklyn (he called). I don’t go overboard (translation: spend a lot of money) but I do try to make it a little special.  So John opens his gift (the predictable and practical shirt) and card (which I take much more time selecting than the shirt – must not be sentimental or silly, must be not be too wordy, must be true).  Breakfast is toasted English muffins and strawberries from farmer’s market, and his favorite tea.  He gets to read the whole paper straight through without trading sections with me.  He gets to skip church and the annual Father’s Day potluck (he hates potlucks).  He has peace and quiet to read since I retreat to the bedroom to spread out all my stuff around me to work on the demonstration project for my writing class.  I’m not sitting across the room interrupting his reading with “Listen to this” comments from my own reading.  He has “The Sound and the Fury” all to himself.  

Later, we go to the park to talk and read.  We stop at Subway and get a sandwich to share.  John gets to pick the ingredients since it’s Father’s Day.  He gets a veggie with everything, extra jalapenos.  I add carrots and apple slices at home, which help cool the fire in my mouth. Then John goes to a movie and I return to my work.  Around 3:00 I call my friend Ruth to see if I can come over to finish filming.  She’s fine with that, so I get the camera and tripod and head out.  When I pull up, another friend, Michelle, and an unknown person are entering the house. Now what?  I met Michelle’s sister; they have stopped by to tour the new house.  Ruth is giving the tour while I hang around with my equipment, not sure what to do.  We discuss decorating tips  – I show some pictures I googled – and everyone jumps in with more ideas.  I’m not getting any filming done. Then another friend, Bev, shows up.  She sits down and makes herself comfortable. Finally I ask if I could possibly have five or ten minutes alone inside.  I apologize profusely.  Everyone goes out to the patio behind the house, and I set up the tripod and do some shots.  Do more hand-held shots. Then I go around back and take a few shots of the four women talking.  Everyone goes back inside, where the air conditioning is on, and I pack up and leave.

For dinner I’ve decided to try a meatloaf recipe from a magazine that looks really good.  John likes beets and I don’t cook them often because they’re messy, but we got some at farmer’s market, so we will have beets.  And mashed potatoes.  While the meatloaf baking and the beets are simmering, I decide to take a quick look at my footage.  I fast forward through our interview demo to get to my real project.  I have filmed three times; the empty house, the chaos of moving, and the orderly finish.  But when I reach the end of the demo, the tape shows my second filming, the moving in.  What happened to the empty house footage?  It’s gone. A third of my project is lost.

John and I figure out what happened.  I showed him the interview demo after I had filmed the empty house.  I neglected to fast forward; I started filming right over my beautiful artsy shots.  You’ll have to take my word for that because they are GONE. It’s hard to find the right word to describe my feeling at that moment.  Discouraged times 1,000.  So now what?  (Other than bursting into tears.) Random thoughts go through my head.  I will drop the class.  I’ll have to start over with another theme. I”ll call a realtor and ask to see an empty house. I’ll ask Ruth to call the movers and have them take everything back out of the house. Nothing seems like the right solution.

Dinner is quiet.  John praises the meatloaf, which I think is not any better than my usual recipe and was a lot more work.  But I may not be the right frame of mind to evaluate it fairly.

After dinner I come up with a compromise solution.  I’ll go back to Ruth’s house, move a little furniture, see if I can get some workable shots.  I check with Ruth, and charge up the camera.  While it’s charging, I go out to cut some hydrangas to take to Ruth.  Being in the garden helps me calm down a little.  I arange the hydrangas (ooh, internal rhyme) in two vases, get my camera and go to Ruth’s house.

Ruth, of course, is very sympathetic and helpful.  She really would have moved out a whole room of furniture, but that would be ridiculous.  I find some empty areas and we do a little moving to get some shots. The light is not right (more internal rhyme, sorry) to get the closeup shot of the glass block window which kalidescoped into lovely colors when I first zoomed in on it.  But it will have to do.  Process, right? At some point it has to be finished, when it’s as perfect as you can make it at the time.  I’m finished with this part.  On to editing.

On the way home, I drive through MacDonald’s and get two chocolate shakes. This day deserves a sweet end.

 

Empty House June 24, 2009

Empty House  

 

In the scrapbook I am making for my son there is a picture of him on the floor of an empty room.  It’s a large room and the sun is pouring in through tall windows onto the wood floor, where he has set up his train tracks and is running his train around the curves of the track.  Nothing else is in the room.  The walls are freshly painted, creamy white.  The floors are newly finished in a mellow cherry tone.  It is a hopeful room, a peaceful room.  It holds promise.  It is the room where we will live together as a family.

  Yesterday my friend picked me up after class and took me to the new house she is renting.  It, too, has been newly painted and has refinished wood floors.  It is completely empty and there is an echo when we speak.  My friend says she wishes she could keep it just like this because it is so peaceful.  But soon it will fill with her baby grand piano, a rug, a couch, the round table from her grandfather.  And her  huge elderly dog, Bear.

This morning in the shower, my best idea place, I decided I will do my video comparing the process of writing to that of turning an empty house into a home.

Much of the writing I do is of my own choosing, or at least I have more or less willingly agreed to do it.  I will assume the house has been selected from a variety of options.  I am now committed to the house/idea.  I’m excited about it but aware of the hard work that will be involved.  I hold the vision of the completed project in my head to keep me going. 

So many decisions to make.  It helps to do a lot of reading and observing.  For the house, I collect magazine pictures, sometimes of rooms with the overall feeling that I want.  I also look for specific details – window treatments, colors, furniture styles.  In writing, I need to think about tone, too.  Will it be humorous, wistful, straightforward, lush?  The details flesh this out, for house and writing alike.  If I want a cheerful, energetic space, I will choose bright colors and a variety of patterns. If I want a serene and peaceful area, I’ll choose subdued colors, simple furniture styles, and keep the space uncluttered.  

I think I am drawn to poetry for the same reason I am drawn to uncluttered,serene spaces.  In my current home one of my favorite rooms is the bedroom because it is so peaceful. It is painted a sort of grayed green color with white trim,and it contains a 4-poster bed, a large walnut armoire against one wall, a dresser against the other, two mismatched end tables with reading lamps, an upholstered chair under the lone window in the corner.  That’s a lot of furniture for a small room, but it’s very uncluttered, with cream/white bedding and pillows.  I walk in and feel at peace.        

I tend to like uncluttered poetry as well.  I really enjoy haiku and have read enough about it to know how deceptively simple is may seem to write it.  There are so many rules and conventions about haiku writing that one could be too intimidated to try, but I do anyway.  I like to haiku during meetings or in church, to get the key ideas in a few words.  Definitely not traditional haiku. But I am also drawn to wonderfully detailed and descriptive writing.  I love Dickens for his vivid characters and scenes, not to mention his wonderful sense of humor, his byzantine plots and his excellent dialog.

So what should I write? A haiku or a meandering, stream-of-consciousness piece (which I appear to be doing at the moment).  The ideas arrive chaotically, much like moving into a new house.  No matter how organized the packing and how well the boxes are labeled, it is bound to be an exhausting task, physically and mentally, to get things moved, figure where to put everything, find the things I need right away.  Where to start? When moving, the bedroom is a good place.  At least  I’ll have a place to sleep and crash when the mess is overwhelming. But with personal writing, the choices are not always so clear.  I like writing poetry and I like writing vignettes.  I do not enjoy fiction writing but it might be good to try it again.  I write the occasional book review or essay and I enjoy those, too.  So now I’m going to pick one and just get started.

Poetry, then.  It’s kind of a spring/ summer thing, maybe.  On second thought, it’s also great for fall and winter.  Although I think winter would be a great time to work on a novel, if one were so inclined.  I would not be distracted by my garden, but could layer on a couple of warm sweaters, make a pot of coffee and just work on it night and day.  But since I am not yet retired and fiction isn’t (yet) my thing, poetry it is.

So I think I’ll write about moving to a new house.  Maybe it will be a series of short poems or divided into verses, like rooms.  I’ll collect memories, images, ideas.  This is the chaotic part, like when all those boxes are sitting in the middle of the floor.

But then I pick one specific image to work with.  I know the others are all there, written down or exploding into my consciousness at odd moments, but I will focus on that single “room”. I have several phrases I like, but they must work together, flow. Finally, they should create an image that engages and challenges the reader to connect and go beyond the words themselves to a deeper, more personal level of truth.

The hard work begins.  Before moving into a house, I plan where to place the furniture, at least the largest pieces.  I do some measuring, sketch out a floor plan. But on moving day I am chagrined to realize that I forgot to take some things into account, like baseboards and trim, width of hallways and stairs, turning angles.  I find that some things just don’t work as planned.  Maybe it fits but just doesn’t look right for some reason.  I end up getting rid of more stuff that just isn’t working.  Gradually though, it starts making sense.  The tables, couches, beds, and dressers take their places, and the lamps, end tables and chairs fall into place. 

I’m still not done, though.  I need to make the beds, put on the tablecloth, the books on the shelves, and the dishes in the china cupboard.  I’m still getting rid of stuff – that flat, useless pillow, the silverware organizer that doesn’t fit.  Hang up the towels and the artwork.  Now I can fold up the packing boxes and recycle the newspaper.  I place a vase of bright yellow daisies on the table.  I’m home.

Lost Computer June 24, 2009

Lost  Computer

 

It is drizzling when I leave the English building, exhausted from the stress of trying to absorb a deluge of new information.  I have no umbrella but think there is a shelter; unfortunately it is on the opposite side of the street.  The sign tells me that my bus, A Brown, is due in four minutes.  I am pleased when someone asks me about another bus because it means I look like I know what I am doing, although this is my first time using the MTD.  It’s kind of like having tourists in Germany come up to me and ask for directions and feeling like I blended in with the locals.  Unfortunately I can not help the lady with her bus.  The sign now says “Due” but there is no sign of a bus .  Then it says,”1 min.” and about three minutes later, there it is.  I get on, locate the place to put the token, and sit down in the front seat.  The bus starts off and I get out the “purse book “I always carry since I have a great fear of being stuck somewhere for a long time without anything to read.   I am reading “The Stranger” by Camus and being thoroughly annoyed by the narrator, who is looking at the sky from his prison cell and JUST NOW trying to figure out how to avoid losing his head (literally).  “Why didn’t you think of that earlier, like during your TRIAL?” I think.  “Couldn’t you have expressed your affection for your mother and your regret that she died so the jury would have thought you were a loving son?  And maybe saying you shot the guy because of the SUN wasn’t the most convincing argument.  So now you’re realizing the world is a wonderful place and it’s TOO LATE.”

As I’m busy condemning the narrator, like he doesn’t have enough problems, I realize that we are turning onto my street.  I grip the yellow cord, ready to pull it right after Theodore and just before Newbury, per my husband’s instructions.  I pull it and nothing happens.  So I jump up and go forward to tell the bus driver I need to get off.  He stops, I get off, dash past my neighbor’s house, grab the mail from the mailbox and take a quick look, unlock my front door, enter and breath a great sigh.  I have survived my first day.

I remember that I need to plug in my (actually the U of I’s) laptop to recharge.  Then I realize that I don’t have the laptop.  I left it on the bus.  Being the wife of an attorney, I experience a sense of relief that I haven’t yet “signed my life away” as the instructor said we would be doing the next day.  So no one can PROVE I ever had it. Maybe I could sprint after the bus. Right. I call the MTD number and a motherly-sounding voice reassures me that she will contact the bus driver and they would call me back. “But just in case, write down this number to call in the morning.”

“In the morning!  I NEED it in the morning!” 

“Yes, but if we don’t get back to you, we don’t want you to think we’ve forgotten about you.”

I hang up and wait.  About five minutes later the phone rings and a jovial male voice on the other end assures me that the bus driver has been contacted and will be circling back in about an hour.  He is not exactly sure when he’ll be at my street.  OK, I’ve got an hour to wait.  Check my phone messages, start some coffee.  My friend Ruth wants me to stop by her new house and help her decide about furniture placement.   

I have a new thought.  The jovial dude didn’t seem too sure about the bus time.  So I check the bus schedule and see that A Brown will be passing soon.  I don’t think this is THE A Brown bus but I am afraid to take a chance so I take my cell phone and umbrella and stand on the corner.  Mid conversation with my friend, the bus approaches so I tell her I’ll call back and run to stop the bus.  The driver cranks open the door.  It’s a different driver (a woman, not a man) so I just say I’m waiting for the next bus which has my computer on it and she nods and smiles like it happens all the time, closes the door and is on her way.

Back in the house, I drink some coffee and gaze out the window, watching for the next bus.  When it’s about time, I take my umbrella and “Bird by Bird” and stand on the corner reading. The bus is definitely late.  Can I possibly have missed it?  Did the driver decide to take a break or go home early? I can’t concentrate on the book. Finally I hear the sound of the bus and it turns the corner.  I wave to the driver and he stops, opens the door and reaches down to pick up the computer and hand it to me.  He smiles.  “Have a nice evening!” he says, and drives away.

Day One June 15, 2009

U of I Writing Project,day one.I don’t think I will be falling asleep in this class.  On the other hand, I hope I don’t burst into tears of frustration!  It’s a very steep learning curve for me to be doing this since I have pretty successfully avoided learning how to use technology beyond the minimum required.  I think this is about to change but at the moment I am very stressed and just want to go back to my pen and paper!