My devoted Unitarian spouse has mastered the art of Challah baking on her second at bat, producing for this evening's shabbos a perfectly braided, moist bread to rival the best the Boston suburbs could offer me way back in my Jewdolescence.
Sunday morning our UU meeting house holds their annual Purim service, where, according to the email, kids and grownups are encouraged to come dressed as your favorite hero or villan.
Not bad for a Jew in the sticks, sans synagogue. Even if any traditional Jewcred heretofore acculumulated was erased this evening when, in a fit of snacking, I consumed a pork-pate-and-challah sandwich. With milk.
What can I say? Being true to thyself isn't about diet or deed in our house. We light candles, sing the blessings, pass the wine from lip to tiny lip, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that though we cherish and celebrate the world both real and spiritual, we mostly keep our gods in our hearts, and shine without.
It's a strange kind of Judaism, but it isn't absent. It rests upon a solid and daily base of worldawareness otherwise unnamed. It is a focusing lens, a brightening agent; it brings the world out like a polish.
Plus, we were out of sesame bagels. And you just can't get good chopped liver this side of Massachusetts.
Where The Daddybloggers Are Music for Audiophiles With Children
Soundsharing: It's a daddy/daughter thing...
New mp3blog smallages makes a big splash posting kidfriendly and occasionally even kid-targeted music from all genres. Because no one should have to listen to the Wiggles. Ever.
Smallages gets kudos both for its own wonderful selections and for directing me to the surprisingly geolocal Spare the Rock, Spoil the Child, a primarily once-a-week which posts mp3s of the 8-10 Saturday morning radioprogram of a daddy/daughter team.
In turn, Spare the Rock tips the hat to YES All Ages Radio, yet another daddy-and-child podcast-slash-Saturday-morning radioshow. What is it about Saturday mornings and kidsongs?
The wonderful coincidence is that both Spare the Rock and YES originate within easy driving distance of the geoself. In fact, Spare the Rock broadcasts on Valley Free Radio, a tiny co-op community station which turns out to be in myvalley, and which comes in not-so-scratchy on the car radio.
A march is a sort of forced forward progress, and sure enough, the weeks between public school vacations have us heads-down.
Teachers share forced smiles as we pass in the hallways between blocks. Students forget their work, get surly when we speak sternly to them, lose their focus when we don't: I play odd covers of their favorite songs in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood; sign their hallpasses OKUP, and wait to see which ones will get the joke. Little works for long.
I've given over my planning periods to a dozen instructional sessions with a rotating crowd of seventh graders -- math classes who generate charts from Olympic medal data; Language Arts classes interested in learning how the rules and environments for formal writing mandate format and praxis in Microsoft Word. As with all such partnerships the coteaching is more work, both in developing curriculum for others and in teaching students whose names and tics I cannot know. I tire from duplicate delivery, lose track of which audience has heard which dumb joke.
More ominously, a familiar tingle has begun to spread from waist to calf as I shift my weight from right to left. The back spasms alarmingly after a long day on my feet. An archival search for herniated in the blog calls up a serious walk down memory lane, but no sign of my biggest fear: that herniation means no child-carrying; that I might miss the last few months of Cassia's carry-on days.
Still, there are signs of spring-to-come.
Yesterday I arrived home to find my daughter and her grandmother playing happily in the woods, lightcoated and hardly cold. Sunday the lawn teemed with robins.
It was warm and bright in the sun today out front of the school, waiting with my yearbook charges for their respective rides.
Two months after the old one sparked and died, a new dryer finally arrived this afternoon; though the delivery tore up the muddy lawn, Darcie's already made it through the first three backlogged clothesloads. I think we all look forward to reclaiming the basement from the mountain that was, all this time, our unwearable wardrobes.
Four weeks to vacation, then: a week in sunny Florida, shopping and sand, a change of tempo. From there the days are numbered; a glorious teacher's summer lurks ahead, countably close. Forced and driven we may be, but forward progress is forward progress.
Ah, March. The lion roars, but the lamb in the distance grows ever nearer.
Cassia Jade Comes Into Her Own Now with Baby's First Yoga Pictures!
At ten months the tiny one is both light and bright for her age, a free spirit more physical, more resilient, more genial, more generous than her sister-as-baby.
She's into ceiling fans, talks back to cows (moo!) and birds (moo!), speaks two dozen words and a dozen babysigns, knows every cabinet and stair by feel.
We chase each other around the house, roaring and giggling. We rest our heads on each other's shoulders and engage in a little mutual backpatting. We share a pacifier. We're not alone much, but when we are, we're a riot.
I used to worry that she'd be forever overshadowed by the first -- both by accident of size and subtlety and through brazenly deliberate action. Her sister is strong, centered, demading, encompassing; in my worst eyes I saw the smaller child as wholly unprepared to compete, an inherent victim of the constant firstchild struggle to remain the center of all things.
But she falls, and does not cry. She watches, and her eyes light up with understanding. She teeters unaided on the playroom floor. She leans into the world, as if daring it to take the first step.
Tonight I found her sitting flat on the floor, trying to pull on a pair of her sister's shorts. She had the motions down pat; she just kept missing her leg.
Slowly, like a butterfly emerging, the baby turns into the girl. Cassia Jade careens from fragile to known object towards full personhood.
There's a unique human bean in there, just beginning to show her true colors.
And man, is she beautiful.
I'm thinking there's nothing to worry about. In fact, the baby has already learned two things from her sister:
Monkey Business proactive parenting in a mediated world
Monkey see, monkey wonder.
Note: yes, it's a long one today. As incentive, readers who make it to the end will find links to three Jack Johnson mp3s from the Curious George movie.
Yet another first for the elderkid today: her first cinematic experience, popcorn and all. Like her recent foray into the world of solo peestops in public bathrooms, I think we're calling this one a success.
We'd certainly prepared her well enough. Teaching and studying media literacy for so long gets under your skin; though there are times when I wish we could use the TV as a brainsitter, it's not in me to be the kind of parent who just flips the switch and leaves the room.
Though concerns about ads and, more generally, incompatibilities between our values and the subversive subtext of mass media have led to a total absence of television reception in our home, we watch videos with her, sit with her while she plays her fave computer games over at PBS Kids. And, in all cases, she feels ownership, can already locate, play, question and put away.
Our deliberate campaign of cautious media filtering and smallscreen co-parenting has already made of three-year-old Willow an increasingly deliberate, discriminating, and active participant in everything from online games to videos from the local libraries and our vast collection of old Muppet Shows. She understands that narrative tension is inevitably resolved.
So it was no surprise to find her arms around my neck at the first hint of cinematic anxiety today. It'll be okay soon, Daddy, she whispered. And she was right. It was wonderful, like a date with my daughter, and her hand felt cool and sweet on my neck.
But there wasn't much anxiety. The change in scale from small screen to large was hardly as significant or overwhelming as I had feared. The perspective, the expectations, and the literacies already burgeoning inside my headstrong eldest seem to work; she seems sure of self in the screenworld as elsewhere, ready to wander like her family before her.
But I can't take all the credit. Much of today's success came from the choice of movie.
Curious George hasn't gotten the best ratings from adults, but as a parent, I found it ideal for a first-time cinematic outing. The plot is tight, albeit sketched in sparsely, just enough to cover all the bases and -- more wonderfully -- address with a minimum of fuss all possible ethical questionables which haunt so much of mass market kid programming. George makes a perfect viewer-projected little kid (better than Elmo, anyway) without losing his simian charm.
The focus is on the developing relationships among the characters as George's presence brings confidence and social connection to the world of the Man of the Yellow Hat. And the characters are almost wholly real, thanks to the tonality and voice of the likes of Wil Ferrell, Eugene Levy, Dick van Dyke, and harmless protoloser David Cross (as the misunderstood pseudo-nemesis).
Jack Johnson's soundtrack was wonderful, the perfect compliment and tonesetting guide to the antics of the ever-expressive George and his shy, earnest yellow-hatted companion. His laid-back rhythmic style set a tone for George which kept the audience relaxed and cheery -- no mean feat, with so many of our fellow moviegoers similarly wee and new to the movieplex.
On the way out Willow and I took a chance to get right up against the projected surface, touch and throw our shadows on the screen itself, break the magic just enough to plant that seed of self-keeping, building the layers of mindfulness necessary for healthy mediaplay, so her future moviewatching can remain both magical and evercritical.
Three other father/daughter pairs followed suit. For just a moment it was intimate up there by the bright yellow screen , just three daddys smiling awkwardly at each other over their daughters' heads as the credits rolled over us all like vertical waves. Nice to share daddyhood, there in the dark; it's so seldom done.
The moment we picked up mama and the baby up near the mall entrance Willow ran away, dodging our outstretched hands; we ended up in a game of catch-and-release, red-faced and spectacular, while Willow screamed No! No! I'm having a really good time! I'm having a really good time!" Eventually we calmed her down, lured her in the car with the promise of chinese food and another movie in the near future, and headed off towards home.
Welcome to McStarbucks, would you like a side of lightly herbed gently sauteed fingerling potatoes with that?
First our local McDonalds started serving real'n'regional coffee. Now Starbucks has started serving breakfast, which is all right with me as long as it doesn't slow up barista production. Because everybody needs a $7 Black-Forest-ham-egg-and-gourmet-cheese-on-an-english-muffin with their $5 venti vanilla latte, but no one wants to wait.
In other food news, I read somewhere* today that Coca-Cola is retaliating against health-conscious schools who want the company to remove soda machines from schools by...threatening to remove soda machines from the schools unless the schools own up to the health benefits of Coke products. That'll show 'em.
That said, blogging (and blogtopics) herein may remain sporadic for a short while while I continue to ponder the infoglut that is my increasingly unbloggable life.
In the meanwhile, I've started a second blog purely for that-which-I-dare-not-mention-here, and you can't find it, so nyahh.
That said, after three years, two children, two jobs, and a multitude of homes and crises, I'm closing in fast on my 1500th post here at the recursively-linked Not All Who Wander Are Lost. Suggestions of how (and whether?) to celebrate would be welcome. Other than "quit while you're ahead", which I may be fast approaching on my own.
In middle school, some mornings are more intelligent than others. From today:
Kyle: Hey, does R come before P?
Anthony: Hey Mr. F. if I take my little man out... Me: I'm sorry, but I'm not answering any question that begins with that phrase.
Katy: Mr. F, can you play us some music? But only if it's good music, okay?
Dylan: Mr. F, where should I put my RSS server? Me: I dunno, Dylan...in a closet? Dylan: Dude, that's not nice.
Anthony: Hey Mr. F, check this out. I printed out 8 pages on this Himmler guy for Mr. C's class. That guy was totally crazy -- he took, like, a cyanide pill!
Homeroom in a computer lab includes turning on the computers; many students then add their own background or mess around with the screensaver settings. Out of 21 working computers, this morning's scrollingtext goodness includes the following: - Beware of Safety - Anthony was here first - 8th graders such - MUSTIFY YOUR MIND
And my new all-time favorite student screensaver text:
- hi my name is satin and when you die youll be coming to see me
Accidentally left the laptop powercord on my workdesk, so we're going quick-and-random tonight. Apologies in advance for any lack of coherence -- 68 minutes left and counting ain't much, netwise.
Spent much of the day pondering curricular use of Google Local (whole-earth satellite images integrated with detailed maps and whitepages crossreferencing) for this week's entry-to-be on the workblog. Curricular: country and geography study, zoomfunction-as-scale, visual ecostystem surveys, fieldtrip planning (find: museums near Stony Hill Road). Uncurricular but cool: map every Starbucks in a 92 mile radius, zoom in on satellite images to see your rooftop close up.
Thanks to BlogExplosion chatpal Wis"cow"sonite Bozette for cutting me a break on a week's tenancy over at her photoblog. Boz is pretty cool, so it's more than just reciprocity to posthost her right back. Wrap up before you visit, though -- her blogphotos feature frozen breath and snow this time of year.
Now that I'm a renter and a homeowner, maybe I really do need this all-in-one Tonkatruck. My wife thinks so, anyway -- she sent me the eBay link while I was at work, and seems serious about the prospect of us owning a little tiny tractor, cab and all. Check out the stats on the Cub Cadet Lawn and Garden Tractor rebuilt and tricked out for snowblowing, plowing, leafblowing, lawn moving: a twin cylinder 18 horsepower engine, a comfy cab... Sure to tear up the lawn during mudseason, but if the thing can make it up our driveway, it might be worth it regardless.
Followup: Thanks to all who expressed concern, regardless of medium, after yesterday's kid incident. Willow's finger remains hidden from view, but she woke early and in her usual high spirits, so I'm going to assume it's both akay and manageable. Thanks, too, to mom and dad, who in separate calls reminded me that when I was Willow's age, my own pinkie tip was essentially sheared off by a doorslam.
Tonight out of the din that is two kids and company one of those present-tense parenting moments: a sudden screaming around the corner and I'm sprinting around the kitchen island like slow motion and into the bathroom and there in the shower my little girl is standing shaking shrieking all alone behind the frosted glass and honey what's the matter O my god she's (Darcie!) bleeding really badly o my god o baby (Darcie! Come quick!) oh baby it's going to be okay and Daddy I was stuck in the DRAIN...
Some kids get their head stuck in the banister. I did.
Tonight my daughter stuck her littlest finger in the shower drain, and shredded the skin off the circumference from base to knuckle trying to pull it out.
The result: one utterly terrified little girl; a series of coldpinkwater rinses; a struggle to see the finger, bend the finger, examine the finger. Hours of relived panic; eventually, an exhausted gauzewrap at doctor's recommendation. No signs of permanent damage so far, but the kind of painful skin injury that restricts full play, nags at the soul, takes forever to heal.
She'll be scared of the shower forever. She'll feel ashamed, and reminded of her shame until long after the scar shows. I know. I remember.
Gonna be a long month.
The drain, Darcie says, after the kids have gone to sleep. Who does that?
In the past 24 hours I've almostfinished two horrendously long blogposts -- one too personal to post, the other too deliberate, too political, too professionally sensitive, too academically unwieldy to pull together after a long first day back at work.
It was my daughter's first day at school today. She threw up this morning before breakfast, she was so nervous.
At the end of the day, her teacher remarked that she was great. And so smart.
The kid reports that she has a new friend named Katherine. Or Christine. And that they played all morning, and sang songs, and got into a fight, and ate snack, and made a project.
I only know because I was told.
Almostfour summers ago, the night she was born, I stayed up all night by her tiny hospital bed-on-wheels, watching her sleep in the light from the bathroom door.
I used to sneak into her room sometimes to watch her sleep, hair unruly, mouth pushed forward in sleep.
I never watch them sleep anymore.
My students, my parents, even my coworkers once and current have found my alter ego. I self-censor to protect myself, and them, and the mask I wear with each of them. The list of things-I-dare-not-blog has reached a tipping point, leaving little but the tidbit available as fodder even on the best of days.
It's not the same as it once was, doesn't serve the purpose of the true innerlife. I struggle too hard to balance the safe with the sound, end my days unfulfilled.
It bothers me to have lost my comfort zone. I miss the wholeness that I used to have in this palace, miss the holistic worldwatching that brought me here. I hate pushing the muse away when she brings me the unbloggable.
I hate not finishing things.
Maybe it's time for a separate piece - a new pseudonym, a begin-again.
Maybe it's just time to move on.
Wanders do, you know. Eventually. When we become lost, and need to find our selves again.
He laid the groundwork for a hundred comedic second fiddles, and his movies made more fun than money, but from Limpet to Chicken to VW Bug sidekick Don Knotts defined the small bumbling man with the heart of gold for more than one media generation. Heck, he even got the girl on occasion.
[Update 2/26 7:34 pm: Seems this weekend's Trifecta of Passage includes actor Darren McGavin, best known as the leglamploving father from A Christmas Story, and beloved Hugo-winning bioethical scifi author Octavia Butler, who seems to have died from a fatal concussion after a fall at age 58. There is no hierarchy of death -- all will be missed.]
I don't read many A-list blogs, mostly because the metablogs I do frequent (like BoingBoing) bring the most viral of blogfodder to my attention regardless of origin.
But in the last few weeks, several blogs have emerged which I'd read even if I weren't a blogging infoculture metageek -- blogs new and old kept by folks whose names are generally recognizable on a mass culture level outside the world of the blogosphere.
What follows is nothing comprehensive, just a taste of my subjective bestblogs whose authors are known outside the blogosphere for work done before they were bloggers. No A-listers need apply (sorry, Wil).
Humorist Dave Barry, who seems to save real writing for his paid gig, uses his Herald-hosted blog almost exclusively for one-liner pass-alongs of the usual web oddities. Comedians that blog more...um...seriously include "comedian to the indie music generation" Eugene Mirman (with thanks to brother Jesse for introducing me to his work) and caustic politico Margaret Cho.
In more local H2O news, we left the sink plugged up for the cat while we were away this week, and when we drained the water upon our return, we found that our lovely well water had stained the sink a beautiful patina green. Happily, the kitchen sink has a filter built in, and the cat remains tiger grey.
Also, it's supposed to snow tomorrow. Does 2-4 inches of frozen, fallen ice crystals count for a water post?
Afterthought: The wife reminds me that way back in 1991 when we were just falling in love, the first song we ever sang together was The Water Is Wide (in the otherwise deserted Bard College chapel, natch). I've since heard it covered by everyone from James Taylor to John Gorka to Eva Cassidy to the Indigo Girls, but I'm still looking for the "definitive" one of 203 recorded versions of The Water Is Wide out there. If you have a favorite, let me know; I fully intend to play it at my funeral.
See, she bought this organizing-principle book a while back, thinking she could really use a book like that. But the moment she got it home she put it down somewhere in the disastrous mess that is her entire house, and promptly forgot she ever bought it.
So she bought a second copy, thinking she could really use a book like that...
I kid because I love, of course. But humor is also in the familiar. And, to be fair, I've inherited her tendency towards total entropic chaos.
My students make fun of me for losing their papers on my classroom desktop.
We actually own a car that should never, ever be locked, because we lost the keys a couple of years back and have never bothered paying someone to core the locks and make a new set.
Like my mother, I used to have an entire room in my home that was totally unusable due to a floor-to-ceiling disaster of papers, books, and other randomalia. We cleaned the room when we needed it for our first child, and, with my goodwife's evergentle assistance, have managed to stave off that particular level of disaster since then.
But it's good to know that, if I ever decide to go the seven-step route towards organizing my life, there's a spare copy of this totally useful book somewhere in my mother's house.
If only she can find it.
In related news: I have a dim recollection that Mom lent me a book on ADD self-management a few years back, but I read a few pages, got distracted, and never finished it. Now I can't find it. Maybe it's in the basement under all those boxes and laundry.
Plenty to be proud of in the Howdy household this long weekend, and for once, it's not all about yours truly.
First, while her mother and tinysister headed homeward in the other car, the elderkid (age 3 and a half) bravely and successfully accomplished her first ever solo bathroom experience in the Thorne's Marketplace women's room. Because I have neither parental shame nor parental instinct, I took her to the candy shop to celebrate. Net gain: one candy necklace, one package watermelon pop rocks, a small bag of candy legos...and one cheerful child mature enough to pay for her own candy, say please and thank you unprompted to the cashier, and save both poprocks and candyblocks for another day.
Then, tonight, after a day of tentative single-steps from parent to sister and back again, our second showoff (age ten months) decided to take her first (five!) solo steps in the aisle of our local Friendly's restaurant. Something about the sheer mass of cooing spectators, I suspect; like their father before, the kids perform better for a crowd.
To top it all off, the four of us beat entropy today, cleaning house from top to bottom just long enough for a ten minute video walk-through of the new home. No small accomplishment, with two tiny ones and an adult genetic tendency towards floortossing running through both sides of the family. Bonus find: a short series of sledding shots from last year at this time, with then-pregnant wife Darcie holding the camera and narrating, still in the camera.
Today's video will be taken in hand by Darcie and baby across the bay to Martha's Vineyard later this week, where old college pal Dan Aronie lies bedridden by late-stage MS at age 33; later, we'll bring the same video to my similarly age-incapacitated grandfather on our next long school vacation in April.
In the meantime, assuming the cat doesn't destroy the place while we're gone, three days in absentia visiting my parents in Boston will keep the house clean for our return. Here's hoping the kids don't revert to terrible type under grandparent gaze. Either way, first stops upon our return: childproof cabinetry, and a kidproof locking mechanism on the bathroom door.
1. Post Secret. This week's anonymous postcard confessions. Check in throughout the week for emailed reader responses to the sinister, the surreal, and the surprisingly universal.
2. New Yorker Cartoon Caption contest. Your first look at this week's new uncaptioned cartoon, so you can spend all week trying out possible funnylines in your head. Also: vote on the best of three captions from two weeks ago, and see who won the vote for the caption-round last month.
3. "Collaborative music blog" Audiography. Weekly theme gets posted Sunday; visit the mp3-posting livejournal community throughout the week to hit (and download from) the resultant audiomecca.
Turn up the heat, she says over the phone, we can fill the tank after all. Superspouse has run our taxes twice, and is proud to report we'll be getting everything back this year. I knew the kids were deductible, and we always max out the teacher deductions, but who knew you could deduct a household move?
Good thing, too. February, and we're running low on pellets for the stove just as the weather finally turns frigid after a hundred days of spring-like winter weather. The wood furnace rocks, but we've determined that the woodpile is just too far from the bulkhead for practical use, which helps us plan for next year but leaves us facing that long trek across the lawn for the remainder of the cold season.
In the meanwhile, the house hovers at 62, and my hands grow numb typing. It's my own fault, really -- I let the heat die down last night, as the kids were with their mom at the Vermont-in-laws overnight, and I thought the sun would warm the house up once it rose. Not much it can do from behind trees waving in a 15 degree wind, though.
More later, including a full review of the veryhot Joe Val Bluegrass Festival I attended yesterday with Dad. For now, I'm off to the hot tubs with superspouse and her entire family in celebration of sis-in-law Alicia's birthday. Viva la steam in winter!
E-textbooks aren't selling, says CNN, which posits both an eventual acceleration in sales and cites surprise that the digital generation isn't as digital as folks thought they were.
But I wonder if those who expect "comfort" to grow are underestimating the subconsciously developing instincts of the digital generation. I mean, I'm only half digital, but I found the e-version of Cory Doctorow's Eastern Standard Tribe so inacessible that I made it to the library within the first ten pages to continue the job.
Quoted anecdotals in CNN's most recent foray into this broad issue cite the limitations of ownership in digital texts, such as the current inability to easily highlight, which will eventually shift as our mindtools evolve, though it may never be as comfortable or permanent as the true joy of bookhacking with pencil and pagefold.
But the paperesque strategies of ownership are not all there is to ownership; the truths of screenreading are not the truths of paperreading.
The conceit of e-speech as short-and-sweet, is constantly reinforced, and seems anathema to the idealized use of textbooks. And we know that from a primarily holistic perspective (as opposed to a practice-and-habit perspective), which would include everything from sensory psychology to workplace ergonomics, the screenread results in less and slower absorption, which means screen-writing mandates shorter paragraphs. And shorter paragraphs seem anathema to the very premise of textbook, by which I mean they are not likely to be typically best-serving of the typographic needs of the field-specific textbook, which aches to be written, read, and treated as deep and detailed.
Profs can try to assign these texts all they want, I suspect; bookstore managers are free to stock what they will, and suggest to CNN that it is a matter of time before students move towards the e-book (though they should have by now, if they were going to). But students who really grok digital may continue to resist. The medium is the message, after all: after years growing digital, our habits of mind and our sensory truths may out the digital textbook as a fluke for the few, a type for the practitioner, rather than a true medium for the learned whether cybercitizen or luddite.
McLuhanists would posit, of course, that the digital scholar would not only write to, but eventually study, that which best befits the cybertext. But Neil Postman always knew we could only reach our full potential in the best sort of literate, wordsmithed scholarship through the word-as-it-is, not the word-of-the-screen. Paper may yet be vital to our study of the universe.
It may not, of course. McLuhan and Postman have been ever-right before, but I suppose the true nature of the C-Change is that it contains all possibility, can only be proven in hindsight. In the meantime, while we wait for time to tell, let us end here, lest the screenwrite -- like our paragraphs herein -- run too long for our topic at hand.
Cette fois que tu m'embrasse, au bout de notre rue Les lampes de gaz nous allumiere... (Valentine Moon)
The moon is rising, she said, and we bundled the kids up in blankets and scarves, loaded them together on to the runner sled for a haul up to the meadow.
Six months since we settled, and our first under our backyard trees postdusk. The path was unfamiliar, almostdark. Under cover of pinebranch the pristine snow obscured still-unfamiliar roots. Our boots slipped and filled with snow. The sled tipped twice. The infant first faced with snow faced it face first.
And though the slog was strenuous, our feet were light. For there, in the middle of it all, just a hundred yards and a million miles from our own warm stoves and couches, the world opened up all-of-a-wow.
The meadow was a revelation, startlingly open to the night sky. And there on the horizon, bracketed by cloud, rose the moon.
What's that? asked Cassia. Moon, we told her. Pretty moon, she replied, and we agreed.
At my feet Willow laughed, pushed glowsticks into the snow, making doubleyous.
Across a pure sheet of reed-broken white, the meadow glowed in streaks from the treebroken moonlight.
We smiled at each other in the halflight, just long enough to make forever.
And then we disappeared into the dark, separate but together, warm in our hearts, children in our arms.
You can have your flowers, your chocolate, your cards. For Valentine's Day this year my wife brought me the bright moon, the stars, the crisp clear night air; bakyard adventure and the family to share it with.
Slashdot reports on recent research which determines that I've only a 50-50 chance of ascertaining the tone of any e-mail message. The study also shows that people think they've correctly interpreted the tone of e-mails they receive 90 percent of the time.
(In true Slashdot fashion, the toneless thread then beats it to death, pre-empting most expansion herein.)
No clarity on whether the emoticon counts for much, plus or minus, in the original study. But the coinflip odds for interpretation suggest that tonality is truly absent from purely textual, one-shot e-speech, though surely context and design/typographic cues can make some difference in more real-world cases, especially when we're talking about ongoing dialog or more mediarich examples of textographic communication.
That said, we'll still file this under a phenom common to all human behavior -- that of thinking that we're better at most interpretive tasks than we actually are. Interesting to see hard numbers, though.
Had so much fun polishing the children's story I'm thinking of writing another one this summer instead of, say, a novel. Or maybe I'll just shop this one around for a while.
Serious consideration given tonight to dropping the formality of my commitment to literary bibliography (but not the commitment itself) a la Some Books in Some Weeks. It's not that I'm not reading the good stuff; it's that the Sunday night stress is getting to me.
Two and a half feet of snow, twenty miles to commute, and I'm just worried about getting out of the driveway tomorrow. At least the garage keeps the cars cleared.
Finally got the video, though the camera battery died seven seconds in. We'll have it in the shop this week to get the battery case open; in the meantime, enjoy a short clip of this year's indoor olympics courtesy of YouTube.
Other Olympic events today included "walking in two feet of snowpowder with Willow" and "one-and-a-half man long-distance driveway sledding". Who needs TV when there's snow?
Snow overnight: 7 inches since the first dusting long after midnight and it's still falling, white and fluffy as a snowglobe.
Up with the baby at dawn to see: an hour on the floor, while her sister and Mama slept late, set the tone for a snuggly day-to-come of hot chocolate and household laziness.
At ten months she's come alive anew. I tried to catch some video of her "walking", tiny hands clutching the small stuffed sheep on wheels as she pushes herself along, but the battery case of our camera is stuck shut; I gave up before the day could sour.
If you could see it, there'd be chickadees and nuthatches, a few solo junkoes flutter from laden tree to seedfeeder and back again, their light bodies causing avalanches on each branch as they land anew.
In the big picture windows the wind blows sporadic, sending squalls across the window. Each gust blurs out the universe, making our cozy indoor haven more real by comparison.
Here in the home the family slowly comes to morning. As I write, Willow struggles with a fresh pair of feet pajamas; infant Cassia heads up for a nap with Mama, tired after a morning's play and wonder with Daddy. The senses fill beyond the camera capturable: light jazz on the Sunday radio; warm fire in the pellet stove; the sweet sounds of rustling cereal boxes, a household full of tiny female wakewhispers.
Somewhere under these heavy white blankets green shoots are dying. One day, these memories will be all we have.
[Update 9:59 am: Not enough battery for video, but I did manage to squeeze a few pix off before the camera went dead. Click on pix below for larger images and access to the whole underutilized album, courtesy of flickr.
Cassia Jade: ten months old and already a morning person.
I hate quotations. Tell me what you know. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
And you know, when you study the semiotics of Through the Looking Glass or watch every episode of Star Trek, you've got to make it pay off, so you throw a lot of study references into whatever you do later in life. - Matt Groening
She wrote secret web pages with gentle empty spaces where the universe could creep in and rest when it got overwhelmed. - Robin Williams
Cable news networks...often act as if the best way to present information is to serve the viewer two opposing advocates battling it out. But in many instances, this ends up confusing rather than illuminating. Not every fact is debatable, not every opinion equal -- or worth equal time. - David Corn
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. - Arthur C. Clarke
This "telephone" has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no use to us. - Western Union internal memo, 1876
The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular? - David Sarnoff's associates, in response to his urging for investment in radio, 1920s
Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons. - Popular Mechanics, 1949
There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home. - Ken Olson, President and founder of Digital, 1977
Subject: HIGH TECHNIQUE ELECTRICAL HOME APPLIANCES---COMPUTERIZE GAS KITCHEN
Date: Mon, 7 Jan 2002 08:53:27 +0000 (UTC)
From: "MRS WANG"
Organization: FUJIAN HUALI TECHNOLOGY CREATING CO,LTD
Do you like to comprehend a computer housemaid ? Do you like to own a blue soldier ? Today , SHIELD gives you the answer .
SHIELD is a computerize gas kitchen which is controlled automatically and intelligently. It is a world wide invention , is a new generation of the gas kitchen..
What is the benefits that SHIELD brings to us ? Firstly , it will relieve you out of the kitchen ,you shouldn't be in when you cook the food .Second ,it solved the problem that the food would be burned ,the soup be out and the gas be leaked .And it will make your family safer and healthier.
Do you want to understand much more merits about SHIELD? Please see the followings:
1. amounts and the kinds of food (boiling water, porridge, rice , soup ,fish ,meat ,medicine), SHIELD will regulate the temperature and time to cook automatically ,and the soap won't be out ,the food won't be burned .It will turn off the electric and gas source by itself ,and tell you by springing out the music .
2. when needing and you can set five times to light fire .
3. ,it will send out a big fire ,and when the temperature reached 100 ,it would change the flame .If the temperature is below 100 ,it will turn to be a big fire ,and keep the flame blue .The containing of CO is less than 0.04% of total .(standard :less than 0.05%) . And then it reduced the pollute .
4. B"CAutomatically limit the time of offering gas :It is 30 minutes that offering the gas. When cooking ,it won't be out whenever it is blew or watered .Because when the fire is out , it will light automatically. When the gas leaked ,the density reached up a level or the temperature of the platform is over 80 ,SHIELD will warn you and turn off the electric and gas source .
5. need ,it can set the temperature and heat the food by itself .
6. according to the container .
7. 70.51%(standard :higher than 55%).Comparing to the common gas kitchen ,it can save more than 40%source of total .
8. natural gas and marsh gas to cook , also can use many kinds of pans, such as iron pan ,aluminum pan and high pressured pan. SHIELD computerize gas kitchen is a housemaid , is a soldier .Is there anything more important than the safety and health of your family ?
Let us share more happy in our lives .Not to bore for the burned food, not to be sad for no time for cooking .For you love your family ,please begin with SHIELD .Possessing SHIELD is possessing love .