It’s daylight right now. Just noon. That window in my parent’s room looks down into the side yard, an adjoined city lot, divided from the house by the driveway. It used to have a beautiful garden that was my dad’s joy. It was the shape of a digital ‘C’ around the perimeter of the yard. The West arm was barricaded by the thick stone wall of the garage, but mostly by the rhubarb that grew in front of it. The south faced the chain link fence we and the neighbors shared, and the East was where the peonies met the Vegetables. It was glorious. Now it’s all grassed over save the West section. The rhubarb will forever flourish in the territory we’ve allowed to take over and the tomatoes are still there too. They don’t go away. But it’s not lush like it used to be and it’s my mom’s garden now. She’s trying to hang on too. She has preserved it, but my dad was the one that cultivated it. He was an excellent gardener.
Being a gardener now myself I have an appreciation for his partnership with the earth. They worked together. My yard hasn’t quite been tamed yet and I don’t seem to manage the weeds very well. They often get the best of me. Or, rather, the best of my plants. The hit below the belt.
Gardening is an unspoken tradition in my family. I can only assume the great-grands gardened, but I know my dad’s dad did. In the town they lived in, Lily Dale, NY, he had a small plot in the community. No one’s yards were accommodating enough for anyone to plant at home, so there was a significant town plot. He grew things here.
I don’t know when my dad started, but as far as I’m concerned, about eternity ago. I entered into a cultivated earth life. We had fresh tomatoes all through the summer. I at cucumbers off the vine often leaving none for the salad my mom wanted them for. I didn’t like eggplant at the time, but I liked how it looked; rich purple with a vibrant green stem. A color combination I wasn’t so bold to yet place in my own art as I was in my dark charcoal stage, well, for most of my teen years.
We had mint along the fence in the SW corner of the ‘C’ garden and when the neighbor’s dog that I was afraid of wasn’t outside I would enjoy picking the leaves off the vine and eating a them.
My dad’s sisters also garden, and they create elaborate plans. Dad is the second from the bottom out of 4. The only boy. He’s the last male Swift, making me the very last of all Swift’s in our family. He would never be sorry he had a girl, but he wanted more children. My mom wanted a career. Thus… no siblings. I wanted an older brother. So I guess he and I wanted the same thing. I, as an adult, have that in my cousin. He’s the next oldest from me in the first generation of cousins and was just glad he missed being the youngest by 1.
Diane, the oldest and the assumed matriarch since Nana, my dad’s mom, passed on in ’94, has an exquisite garden. She also enjoys cooking a great deal, so the two go hand in hand for her. Cindy, the youngest of the siblings, lives out a ways from the city in an old farm house in Hamlin. She also has done a beautiful job with her earth. These two go to great lengths to create themes each year for their dirt. It’s the teacher in them; all things function in themes and units. Teaching and gardening: These are two things my family does exceptionally well.
I began a garden the first year I lived in my apartment in Illinois. I was fortunate to find the first floor of a house when I moved to Rock Island and the landlord was kind enough to give me the backyard and let me do what I wanted with it. I didn’t really even think much about it. It was summer… you plant things. And so the spirit continued.
7.06.2008
1) What's come to mind... one thing to the next...
I got to Rochester this past Wednesday and have been writing since the moment I walked in the door. For some reason, this trip has incited the need to just throw a stream of consciousness onto paper... so I have...
So far...
I walked in the door around noon on Wednesday to the most familiar place I’ve ever known my whole life. My parents bought the house directly from Fred Miller in 1974. He had built in 1917. Bill and Maggie were the second owners of the house. For the past 10 years I’ve wanted to be the third.
They’ve lived here 34 years. I realize now how very much, though I am always welcome here, this was never my house. This was their purchase together, saying “this will be our life.” There have been birthdays, endless cook outs, singing sessions in the kitchen, backyard and living room. Holidays including every Christmas Dinner for the past 30+ years that, for a long time, while there were still children, included an original choreographed version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” by Uncle Larry. I have missed the past 7.
I have wafted in and out of a variety of events and happenings, faces that frequent the kitchen counter having coffee or dinner, house projects and various other things… and I have always just drifted through these scenes without landing… because it’s someone else’s lives: my parents’.
All these things considered, I have roots here.
In the past few years, I can’t even say when it started, I have come to miss Rochester deeply. Even though it hasn’t been a permanent residence to me, really, since I left for College, it is home. And as I continue to learn more about who I am, who I’m growing to be, “home” has some different sounds to it. And it’s not where I am now. I live in the place I have an address… but it’s not home.
I remembered that when I walked in the door that I am never home in the summer anymore. I come home every Thanksgiving. I make it home once a year really. But I opened the door and was immediately back being the age of sometime when I lived there. We’ve never had central air in the house. So we just would open every ancient window that would budge and be propped up and let the air in. Mom set up box fans in the hallways and you did you best to stay cool. This was the scene that greeted me.
The front and back doors were open, and every window in between. Curtains lifted on the breezes and danced as far out into the room as the rods would allow. The scent in the house was indescribable by any words but I knew what it had mixed into it and it was right. I knew what seasons and memories and rooms were sent into the air together.
I went upstairs where my parents were, carrying the beast known as my bag up to the second floor and found my mom making my bed up. She loves doing this. I appreciate it. Mom’s are always moms.
Where I land when I’m home is not the room I grew up in. We have a basic 4 square style house. It’s set up in quadrants: Front hall with stairway up, living room, dining room, kitchen all going in a circle back to the front hall. Upstairs, you step up into a central hall with 6 doors. Bathroom is straight ahead. Two bedrooms to the left, two to the right. Attic door is next to the stairway entrance.
My room used to be the one that faces the street in the far left corner of the hallway. The street light shined in the window every night and I don’t know why I never got wise to the idea that I had shades. I was afraid of the dark, that’s probably why.
However, I relinquished my bedroom one summer, unknowingly forever, for the upstairs back porch. The room was never anything more than simply a trash collection site for anything we didn’t just carry the extra 12 steps to the attic. It was off of what we called the den (room off the hall to the right of the top of the stairs). The “den” really was also a collection site that mostly marauded around as a guest room. A very crowded guest room.
The back porch upstairs was really untouched from the very point my parents had moved in. Every now and then I would attempt some level of organization when I decided I needed a new hide-out. It was always a place to look at the stars. I once saw the Northern lights from the North corner. But I only moved stuff around and stacked it differently. It was never cleaned.
During the time I was living at home for a few months post college I did a number of projects around the house just trying to stay sane. The back porch was one of them. It was cleared, painted, carpeted and new windows were eventually put in. This became my favorite room in the house. It’s now my room when I’m home. It’s just 5’x12', but three sides are all windows and it’s magnificent during late fall when I’m home to fall asleep watching the snow fall or looking at the stars.
But sometimes I miss theroom that I slept in as a kid because it’s like saying goodbye to a section of my life… and I don’t handle that well. My mom calls it hers now. My parents, though they love each other, just don't sleep in the same room anymore... somehow snoring has something to do with it. I don't know.
My room had the front porch roof just out of the window that faces east. In Middle School or High School I realized how easy it was to take the screen out and began to frequent evenings out on ot, sitting, again, to look at the stars. Indigo Girls, the Sugarcubes, R.E.M., the Beatles, Kate Bush, Michael Hedges… all voices coming from the tape deck inside as I would sit and watch the cars go by.
I was hit by all these things walking through the house. Enough, at least, that when my parents emptied the second floor after all greetings has been established, I laid down on my dad’s spot on his bed where I used to sleep next to my mom when he was away on business or a boat trip, and propped my chin up on the window sill that was just at mattress level. I was reacting.
I used to do this and look out the window at the stars and feel the breeze feathering my face when I was younger. It hurt my teeth to have them clenched for so long as my neck stretched to rest on the sill, but I loved the feeling, and what it smelled like when I was young: the wood of the window frame, the screen of the window, the air. Especially when it rained. I loved laying there when it rained.
They’ve since bought a new bed and it’s taller so it didn't feel quite right, but when I laid down on it I buried my nose in the stripped wood and breathed in. My senses searched until I caught the bitter depth of the scent I was looking for. I almost cried.
So far...
I walked in the door around noon on Wednesday to the most familiar place I’ve ever known my whole life. My parents bought the house directly from Fred Miller in 1974. He had built in 1917. Bill and Maggie were the second owners of the house. For the past 10 years I’ve wanted to be the third.
They’ve lived here 34 years. I realize now how very much, though I am always welcome here, this was never my house. This was their purchase together, saying “this will be our life.” There have been birthdays, endless cook outs, singing sessions in the kitchen, backyard and living room. Holidays including every Christmas Dinner for the past 30+ years that, for a long time, while there were still children, included an original choreographed version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” by Uncle Larry. I have missed the past 7.
I have wafted in and out of a variety of events and happenings, faces that frequent the kitchen counter having coffee or dinner, house projects and various other things… and I have always just drifted through these scenes without landing… because it’s someone else’s lives: my parents’.
All these things considered, I have roots here.
In the past few years, I can’t even say when it started, I have come to miss Rochester deeply. Even though it hasn’t been a permanent residence to me, really, since I left for College, it is home. And as I continue to learn more about who I am, who I’m growing to be, “home” has some different sounds to it. And it’s not where I am now. I live in the place I have an address… but it’s not home.
I remembered that when I walked in the door that I am never home in the summer anymore. I come home every Thanksgiving. I make it home once a year really. But I opened the door and was immediately back being the age of sometime when I lived there. We’ve never had central air in the house. So we just would open every ancient window that would budge and be propped up and let the air in. Mom set up box fans in the hallways and you did you best to stay cool. This was the scene that greeted me.
The front and back doors were open, and every window in between. Curtains lifted on the breezes and danced as far out into the room as the rods would allow. The scent in the house was indescribable by any words but I knew what it had mixed into it and it was right. I knew what seasons and memories and rooms were sent into the air together.
I went upstairs where my parents were, carrying the beast known as my bag up to the second floor and found my mom making my bed up. She loves doing this. I appreciate it. Mom’s are always moms.
Where I land when I’m home is not the room I grew up in. We have a basic 4 square style house. It’s set up in quadrants: Front hall with stairway up, living room, dining room, kitchen all going in a circle back to the front hall. Upstairs, you step up into a central hall with 6 doors. Bathroom is straight ahead. Two bedrooms to the left, two to the right. Attic door is next to the stairway entrance.
My room used to be the one that faces the street in the far left corner of the hallway. The street light shined in the window every night and I don’t know why I never got wise to the idea that I had shades. I was afraid of the dark, that’s probably why.
However, I relinquished my bedroom one summer, unknowingly forever, for the upstairs back porch. The room was never anything more than simply a trash collection site for anything we didn’t just carry the extra 12 steps to the attic. It was off of what we called the den (room off the hall to the right of the top of the stairs). The “den” really was also a collection site that mostly marauded around as a guest room. A very crowded guest room.
The back porch upstairs was really untouched from the very point my parents had moved in. Every now and then I would attempt some level of organization when I decided I needed a new hide-out. It was always a place to look at the stars. I once saw the Northern lights from the North corner. But I only moved stuff around and stacked it differently. It was never cleaned.
During the time I was living at home for a few months post college I did a number of projects around the house just trying to stay sane. The back porch was one of them. It was cleared, painted, carpeted and new windows were eventually put in. This became my favorite room in the house. It’s now my room when I’m home. It’s just 5’x12', but three sides are all windows and it’s magnificent during late fall when I’m home to fall asleep watching the snow fall or looking at the stars.
But sometimes I miss theroom that I slept in as a kid because it’s like saying goodbye to a section of my life… and I don’t handle that well. My mom calls it hers now. My parents, though they love each other, just don't sleep in the same room anymore... somehow snoring has something to do with it. I don't know.
My room had the front porch roof just out of the window that faces east. In Middle School or High School I realized how easy it was to take the screen out and began to frequent evenings out on ot, sitting, again, to look at the stars. Indigo Girls, the Sugarcubes, R.E.M., the Beatles, Kate Bush, Michael Hedges… all voices coming from the tape deck inside as I would sit and watch the cars go by.
I was hit by all these things walking through the house. Enough, at least, that when my parents emptied the second floor after all greetings has been established, I laid down on my dad’s spot on his bed where I used to sleep next to my mom when he was away on business or a boat trip, and propped my chin up on the window sill that was just at mattress level. I was reacting.
I used to do this and look out the window at the stars and feel the breeze feathering my face when I was younger. It hurt my teeth to have them clenched for so long as my neck stretched to rest on the sill, but I loved the feeling, and what it smelled like when I was young: the wood of the window frame, the screen of the window, the air. Especially when it rained. I loved laying there when it rained.
They’ve since bought a new bed and it’s taller so it didn't feel quite right, but when I laid down on it I buried my nose in the stripped wood and breathed in. My senses searched until I caught the bitter depth of the scent I was looking for. I almost cried.
2.27.2008
Copenhagen
This is where I'm going next. Anyone been there? What should I see?
I will at least be going here - Hamlet's castle - mr. Prince of Denmark. Maybe cross over to Sweden for the afternoon. I'm so addicted to traveling.
I will at least be going here - Hamlet's castle - mr. Prince of Denmark. Maybe cross over to Sweden for the afternoon. I'm so addicted to traveling.
2.13.2008
Of Course it Did... Again...
It's one thing when my car traps me...
...It's entirely another when I go to pick up my car from the garage and the guy tells me it happened to him.
He was able to climb out the passenger side door.
Oh my gosh... my car habitually eats people.
...It's entirely another when I go to pick up my car from the garage and the guy tells me it happened to him.
He was able to climb out the passenger side door.
Oh my gosh... my car habitually eats people.
1.25.2008
Of Course it Did
It's been cold. Really cold. I woke in a fog the other morning hearing the guy on the radio say that the windchill was -35. I watched something the other day about people in Antarctica that were taking core samples in -48. How was it that my life in Illinois resonated so closely with those so far south on the lattitude lines? Something wasn't right.
My car doesn't do well in the cold. It's about 11 years old. It's a lovely little Green Jetta. But it's so ornery around this time of year. It takes some time to start, the locks freeze shut... it takes some effort to coerce it into cooperation on days that are cold. It takes some particular coercion on days that are -35. It was the night before that announcement, when the temperatures were rapidly descending, that I had an incident.
A couple nights ago leaving one of my teen's plays my locks froze. I put the key in the door to turn the locks and, though the locks lifted, they didn't unlock. I have learned this also takes some persuasion so I persisted. I prevailed about 10 minutes later.
However, the night of falling temperatures... this was the night. This was the night I tried to unlock my car and there was no hope. This was the night that the cold was a bit too biting. This was the night that it was really late and I was just really tired. All of these factors would've just simply been annoying... had I not actually have been IN MY CAR when this was all happening.
My car was in my driveway. I could see the house. I knew my bed and warmth and a nice cup of tea were just feet from me... and I could not get to them.
My response started as a clipped, "No... this is unacceptable. No... I will have none of this." As it escalated over the next half hour, there were brief moments of colvulsiona and few "ARE YOU FRIKKIN KIDDING ME's!?!?!?!?!". More than a couple,
"JESUS! WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME!?!?!?!", and a various assortment of...
"Why am I seriously locked in my car? This is the most retarded thing EVER!!!"
"Jenn... you are actually locked in your car. Your car has chosen this night to eat you. How does this make you feel?"
"You are sitting in your own driveway... held hostage by your car."
"All I want is to be in bed"
This random stream of monologue could've continued for hours had it needed to have. I am an only child - I have often been the only one available to talk with regularly for the past 31 years. I do this.
It was about 1am... "I can't call anyone" I thought as I looked up at my sunroof, wondering if I'd fit.
I tried rolling down the window but realized that even if I did crawl out of it... how do I get the window back up?
I tried, at least, reaching through the window and pulling on the door handle from the outside. Nothing.
I tried all the doors thinking I'll just crawl out... except NONE of them were cooperating. In addition, my seat wouldn't lay back for me to climb over it cause the crank was, yes, frozen.
I tried driving around for a while hoping the door would warm up.
I tried...
Finally! one door became willing; the back passenger. Luckily I suck at putting things back where they belong because my front passenger seat was still fully horizontal due to needing to transport a keyboard for a few weeks two months ago. I crawled and contorted over the items that regularly reside in my vehicle and managed to land with two feet on the ground and standing fully upright as I exited the vehicle.
And just because I knew... just because I wanted the aggrivation... because this was, of course, how it was going to go... I went around to the front and grabbed the handle of the drivers side door... and effortlessly opened it.
My car doesn't do well in the cold. It's about 11 years old. It's a lovely little Green Jetta. But it's so ornery around this time of year. It takes some time to start, the locks freeze shut... it takes some effort to coerce it into cooperation on days that are cold. It takes some particular coercion on days that are -35. It was the night before that announcement, when the temperatures were rapidly descending, that I had an incident.
A couple nights ago leaving one of my teen's plays my locks froze. I put the key in the door to turn the locks and, though the locks lifted, they didn't unlock. I have learned this also takes some persuasion so I persisted. I prevailed about 10 minutes later.
However, the night of falling temperatures... this was the night. This was the night I tried to unlock my car and there was no hope. This was the night that the cold was a bit too biting. This was the night that it was really late and I was just really tired. All of these factors would've just simply been annoying... had I not actually have been IN MY CAR when this was all happening.
My car was in my driveway. I could see the house. I knew my bed and warmth and a nice cup of tea were just feet from me... and I could not get to them.
My response started as a clipped, "No... this is unacceptable. No... I will have none of this." As it escalated over the next half hour, there were brief moments of colvulsiona and few "ARE YOU FRIKKIN KIDDING ME's!?!?!?!?!". More than a couple,
"JESUS! WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME!?!?!?!", and a various assortment of...
"Why am I seriously locked in my car? This is the most retarded thing EVER!!!"
"Jenn... you are actually locked in your car. Your car has chosen this night to eat you. How does this make you feel?"
"You are sitting in your own driveway... held hostage by your car."
"All I want is to be in bed"
This random stream of monologue could've continued for hours had it needed to have. I am an only child - I have often been the only one available to talk with regularly for the past 31 years. I do this.
It was about 1am... "I can't call anyone" I thought as I looked up at my sunroof, wondering if I'd fit.
I tried rolling down the window but realized that even if I did crawl out of it... how do I get the window back up?
I tried, at least, reaching through the window and pulling on the door handle from the outside. Nothing.
I tried all the doors thinking I'll just crawl out... except NONE of them were cooperating. In addition, my seat wouldn't lay back for me to climb over it cause the crank was, yes, frozen.
I tried driving around for a while hoping the door would warm up.
I tried...
Finally! one door became willing; the back passenger. Luckily I suck at putting things back where they belong because my front passenger seat was still fully horizontal due to needing to transport a keyboard for a few weeks two months ago. I crawled and contorted over the items that regularly reside in my vehicle and managed to land with two feet on the ground and standing fully upright as I exited the vehicle.
And just because I knew... just because I wanted the aggrivation... because this was, of course, how it was going to go... I went around to the front and grabbed the handle of the drivers side door... and effortlessly opened it.
1.11.2008
K. Not sure how I got it done... but I'm able to post. I have had a nasty relationship with blogger since... well... June I guess. I switched my sign in to a gmail... because they made me (I'm sure gun point was involved... it was traumatic I think) and then when I did... I couldn't access my blog because they treated my new sign in as a new account. BUT THEN!!! I couldn't sign in using my old sign in... which meant I couldn't access my blog...
I don't know if this makes sense, but even as I write this I'm shaking my head in exhaustion because it's been stupid. Stupid. It seems as though this mile is behind me now, however, and I can move on.
Here's to a new dawn.
I don't know if this makes sense, but even as I write this I'm shaking my head in exhaustion because it's been stupid. Stupid. It seems as though this mile is behind me now, however, and I can move on.
Here's to a new dawn.
6.17.2007
6.03.2007
5.15.2007
At 1:25am I woke up. I woke up with my house being shook hard, and there was a very loud noise... because three houses down and across the alley a house exploded. Weird.
I thought something had fallen... it was the only frame of reference I might have had. i walked around trying to figure it out, totally baffled. Awake, but confounded. I finally made my way to my back room and saw flames, huge, house-engulfing flames, out the window and down the alley just a few houses. I heard the sirens coming down the street as I was looking for my phone to call 911. A neighbor came and banged on my door wanting to make sure I was up if anything were to happen. The house down the street had totally exploded and was just lost to flames.
I went outside, with the rest of my neighborhood, and sat on a lawn across the street from the house, watching firefighters do their job. A Policeman came over and asked for my info, I spoke with some neighbors as we exchanged stories of the past half hour. He also told me which houses in front of us used to be crack houses. Good. Thanks. One person pointed down the street to an object in the road. It was the front door of the house, still stuck in its frame, that had been blown across the road. We were commenting on how glad we were the wind was blowing all smoke and ashes away from the neighborhood.
About 2:30am, I walked back across the street to home and went back to bed. No one had been hurt. The house was unocupied for quite some time. They suspected it was a gas leak.
I drove by the house today and obviously it's nothing. It was just so surreal to watch a house in my neighborhood go up in flames. I've always thought about what things I would try to take if threatened by a fire. I've made this plan for, like, ever. I never thought of a house just exploding, though.
Moral of this story - check all gas valves. I don't want to hear of anyone's house exploding.
5.13.2007
What it came to...
Oh man. This was sincerely the worst it had ever been... but I can't believe I let it get THIS FAR!!! After I mowed and mowed... and mowed at much the following pace - mow 2 ft, mower stops, unclog mower, mow 2 ft, mower stops, unclog mower, lather, rinse, repeat. Raise wheels, mow 5 feet, hear mower bogging down, pull back, mower regains strength, mow 5 feet, hear mower bogging down, pull back, begin again - I got the lawn completed to a reasonable, neighborly standard... but not completely before I could take this picture... just because, well, who would believe me. Probably most, actually, knowing how good I am at not worrying about it. "Eh, Whatever"
This particular patch was the largest of them all at about 2ft. 2 FT! There was a rabbit's nest in the middle. Squirrels were having trouble clearing the reeds and blades as they frolicked. I enjoyed watching this wildlife display. Made me laugh.
The reality is my lawn mower has been broken. Which is fine if it's winter. It is not winter any longer. A broken mower is no longer fine. I borrowed a friend's. They took it back.
So... the moral of this story... always fix a broken lawnmower because you never know how fast your grass will grow.
4.16.2007
Death and...
I'd rather choose death. But only today... and some of tomorrow... or maybe all of tomorrow... until midnight. After that there are 365 days, more or less, until I'm in this spot again.
I'm sitting here trying to finish my taxes... and by finish... I mean start.
I'm going back and forth between H&R Block and IRS' homepage trying to figure out which one will be a better choice when electronically filing my taxes... because these are the decisions I should be making today.
I've been sitting at Panera since 11am. It's 2:30 almost. I have counted receipts, added contributions, dispersed W-2's, pulled out my home mortgage folder... I have the tools. But I came in looking just as someone would imagine a creative, artsy - non-math, non-linear thinking person should look as they are preparing to embark on their nightmare while still awake. Replete with multiple folders, a ziploc bag of envelopes holding more envelopes with faded and highlighted receipts, a stack of loose printer paper that has everything from iTunes to amazon purchases itemized (which is seriously not a force to be reckoned with), and every tax document I could gather, I sat down at a small-ish table. I know others have spied me from across the room all day thinking, "now, there's a poor soul" Please let me take a moment to tell you it IS all organized... I keep this stuff together. I know exactly where everything is... but it does look to be a mess and it's not clean.
In the past this hasn't been such an issue. I've never liked doing taxes... but I've never been afraid of them. This year I have a bit more complicated situation on my hands. I'm self-employed in addition to being employed by two other employers - in two neighboring states, though. I bought a house. I have to depreciate all my depreciable assets such as piano, computer, and other business related componets. And I have a mess of receipts I've had to translate from German to English while using my currency converter to find out what the Eruo to Dollar ratio is right now.
Now, as you read this I'm sure many of you are thinking, "There are people out there to help individuals like you" - this I realize... however, I believe they will treat me much like my mom when bringing in my stack... late... I imagine a shaking of the head, a few tsk's and a lecture on the importance of being prepared... like I give my students... like I got in High School. I'm avoiding that... by bringing the mess of the American Economy upon myself. It seems like a decent trade off.
Some of the more clever of you are also noting the fact that I've been writing a blog entry about what I should be doing rather than actually doing what I should be doing... again, avoidance.
I'm very self-aware.
4.12.2007
3.27.2007
Pumpkins & Cattle
This is for everyone who has seen the pumpkin. I don't even have to qualify which pumpkin I am refering to... it is simply "the pumpkin"
This past Halloween one of the teens carved a pumpkin that said "Rachael and Jenn" and we put it on our front step. There were A LOT of tea lights in it. This was, as he said, so it would "glow brightly for all to see", or something like that. And there the pumpkin glowed. And then began to rot... and rot... and rot and snow fell on it... and I didn't want to touch it... and was going to wait until it froze to rid myself of it... then students thought it was funny... and began talking to it... and announcing "THE PUMPKIN" every time they got out of the car when they arrived... that I couldn't get rid of it... and it's still there... no longer rotten as much as... petrified. And will be, now, until nature has it's way with it and it becomes ashes to ashes... or something dramatic like that.
It has come in handy actually. Just yesterday I used a couple of its candles to throw at a beligerent squirrel that was digging up the bulbs I had planted the day before.
On another note, but holiday related and a focus on something this same pumpkin-carving teen said this past Christmas that had me laughing. I don't know why I haven't blogged about this yet, though I had promised to a while ago...
Anyway, I had the teens over early in December to help me put up my Christmas garland outside. Earlier in the day I was in my garage and SWORE I heard cows mooing... what? I definately went through the "am-I-crazy" mental check and landed on, "I am really hearing cows". I live right in the middle of a city. Not sky-scraper land, but busy streets, buisnesses, regular city siren noises, etc... and then among the regular din I heard... mooing. It was incredibly surreal. So that night the teens are over and I shh everyone and ask them what they hear... and of course it went silent at that moment. THEN! A loud chorus of cattle mooing rises up out of the cold night air! and everyone screamed... and dropped what they were doing to investigate. Two cars took off while a couple of us stayed behind (way too crowded in those cars) and they came back reporting that there was a cattle auction building down and across the street. A cattle auction.
So later on I'm outside putting more garland up and this pumpkin-carving teens comes outside and yells, "JENN! The Cattle are LOWING!"
Spring has arrived. It has been in the 70's and 80's for the past few days. Spring rains, thunderstorms, warm breezes you could drink as well as many sunny days. I love Spring. Flowers are starting to come out and I planted some new things on Sunday. Just wonderful.
Last week, last Tuesday, was a gorgeous day. I went to the playground at a nearby park on my lunch. I was finishing a knitting project and an Eastern Indian woman sat down next to me. Nothing unfamiliar. I work with a lot of Eastern Indian families. There is a large population of families from India in the quad cities. This woman did not speak much English at all so we just sat next to each other; she was watching me knit. After a few minutes she reached out her hands to my knitting and I handed it to her. She began finishing what I was working on and she was quick! I held the yarn for her, feeding it when it got too tight. I eventually took out another project and worked on that for a while. So we were two ladies knitting in the park. It was really enjoyable. I'm not uncomfortable with non-verbal communication. Anytime I travel, this is bound to happen - that I run into someone that can't speak English - so I've become acustomed to finding ways to interact with people without necessarily speaking with them. So had this woman. She could probably understand more than she could speak, but her vocabulary was not wide. It was really enjoyable, though. I'm not a "women's place is in the home" type of girl, nor am I a raging feminist, but I do appreciate these sort of things that seem to fall most often into the category of "women's work" and it was really quite nice to be two ladies sitting on a park bench knitting.
It got me way farther with my hat project too.
Last week, last Tuesday, was a gorgeous day. I went to the playground at a nearby park on my lunch. I was finishing a knitting project and an Eastern Indian woman sat down next to me. Nothing unfamiliar. I work with a lot of Eastern Indian families. There is a large population of families from India in the quad cities. This woman did not speak much English at all so we just sat next to each other; she was watching me knit. After a few minutes she reached out her hands to my knitting and I handed it to her. She began finishing what I was working on and she was quick! I held the yarn for her, feeding it when it got too tight. I eventually took out another project and worked on that for a while. So we were two ladies knitting in the park. It was really enjoyable. I'm not uncomfortable with non-verbal communication. Anytime I travel, this is bound to happen - that I run into someone that can't speak English - so I've become acustomed to finding ways to interact with people without necessarily speaking with them. So had this woman. She could probably understand more than she could speak, but her vocabulary was not wide. It was really enjoyable, though. I'm not a "women's place is in the home" type of girl, nor am I a raging feminist, but I do appreciate these sort of things that seem to fall most often into the category of "women's work" and it was really quite nice to be two ladies sitting on a park bench knitting.
It got me way farther with my hat project too.
3.09.2007
Music Class
Every music class from 3 - 6 that I teach does the same routine straight away when they come in the room. It takes up the first 5 minutes of class, more or less. They put their attendance stickers on the name chart, get a pencil, a clipboard (they don't really have desks) and they writing/drawing paper. The paper has half blank space and have lined space. At the top is a place to write composer, title and performer. It's called "Art of Listening" and I do it so that the students will gain exposure to a large volume of music, composers and styles that they would never choose to listen to on their own (yet) nor would know how to find. Most of the students are surprised to find out what music they actually like. Some are favorites - Beethoven's 5th, Beethoven's 9th (Ode to Joy), William Tell Overature, Bach Toccata and Fugue in Dm (the "Halloween Organ Song") - most of the jazz of Ella and Duke are over their heads, but they're getting familiar. We do a brief talk on the composer/performer, style and piece and then we're on to the days work.
They're job is to either write a story or draw a picture that's appropriate to the style of the music (you don't want to hear a lovely pastoral suite with a picture of vampires running around... I have to give this direction or this is what you'd get every time from the 4th and 5th grade boys) Also, they can't cop out and just draw the instrument they're hearing. They need to try to see a story in the mood of the music.
Some students have written some amazing short pieces during this time. Some have drawn some very insightful pictures. Some just draw princesses. The exposure's important.
Yesterday we listened to Chopin's Etude 12, also titled "Revolutionary". A wonderful solo piano piece in a heavy minor with gorgeous cascades of scales rushing up and down through the octave's behind dramatic chord stuctures wide with range and tone. If you know music, it's a relatively familiar work. Very dramatic... Chopin was good at this. An Eturde is simply an exercise, like a skill drill, in some particular area of technique, so when you listen to Chopin's you think "if these were just his 'exercises'... I have played Chopin many times and it is always challenging, but sublime.
Yesterday's song, though, was interesting in what it evoked in the students. Across the board with my 5th graders, probably 90 - 95% of the students wrote or drew a situation where someone was stuck... walking up stairs that never ended, getting swallowed in a whirlpool that never stopped spinning them, falling down an endless hill, running from something without escape. I was fascinated by this. They music really does, because of the endless roll of scales, have a sense of continuum for sure, but I was so impressed that the student's "felt" it... really felt it deeply enough that what they thought to say through their work echoed this perfectly. It was really perceptive and contigous class-wide. And it was something I never heard in the piece and I was wondering what maybe Chopin was trying to say himself. Like I said, the piece was written as an exercise, but he never passed up an opportunity to say something emotionally.
Later on that day I was speaking with another student, Older, about 17, who I had just had do some research on a couple composers earier this week of pieces he's playing. He was surprised by some of the things he discovered and we discussed how every composer, whether writing personally or for a commission, always brings themselve into the piece. Every thing they experience informs their work and they speak to us through their music. It's like reading their autobiography.
What resulted in the class was a wonderful moment where these young people realized that these songs aren't just random pieces of musical history - without point, without connection. But that they speak to us and create moods and worlds. That these composers are still reaching through time to tell us stories from their present and their past and even what they saw in the future; that it's a conversation with voices that still speak with us today. In fact that they aren't voices of ghosts but those still living among us, relating to us, pulling us and pushing us, sharing space with us... daring us to tell stories of our own.
They're job is to either write a story or draw a picture that's appropriate to the style of the music (you don't want to hear a lovely pastoral suite with a picture of vampires running around... I have to give this direction or this is what you'd get every time from the 4th and 5th grade boys) Also, they can't cop out and just draw the instrument they're hearing. They need to try to see a story in the mood of the music.
Some students have written some amazing short pieces during this time. Some have drawn some very insightful pictures. Some just draw princesses. The exposure's important.
Yesterday we listened to Chopin's Etude 12, also titled "Revolutionary". A wonderful solo piano piece in a heavy minor with gorgeous cascades of scales rushing up and down through the octave's behind dramatic chord stuctures wide with range and tone. If you know music, it's a relatively familiar work. Very dramatic... Chopin was good at this. An Eturde is simply an exercise, like a skill drill, in some particular area of technique, so when you listen to Chopin's you think "if these were just his 'exercises'... I have played Chopin many times and it is always challenging, but sublime.
Yesterday's song, though, was interesting in what it evoked in the students. Across the board with my 5th graders, probably 90 - 95% of the students wrote or drew a situation where someone was stuck... walking up stairs that never ended, getting swallowed in a whirlpool that never stopped spinning them, falling down an endless hill, running from something without escape. I was fascinated by this. They music really does, because of the endless roll of scales, have a sense of continuum for sure, but I was so impressed that the student's "felt" it... really felt it deeply enough that what they thought to say through their work echoed this perfectly. It was really perceptive and contigous class-wide. And it was something I never heard in the piece and I was wondering what maybe Chopin was trying to say himself. Like I said, the piece was written as an exercise, but he never passed up an opportunity to say something emotionally.
Later on that day I was speaking with another student, Older, about 17, who I had just had do some research on a couple composers earier this week of pieces he's playing. He was surprised by some of the things he discovered and we discussed how every composer, whether writing personally or for a commission, always brings themselve into the piece. Every thing they experience informs their work and they speak to us through their music. It's like reading their autobiography.
What resulted in the class was a wonderful moment where these young people realized that these songs aren't just random pieces of musical history - without point, without connection. But that they speak to us and create moods and worlds. That these composers are still reaching through time to tell us stories from their present and their past and even what they saw in the future; that it's a conversation with voices that still speak with us today. In fact that they aren't voices of ghosts but those still living among us, relating to us, pulling us and pushing us, sharing space with us... daring us to tell stories of our own.
2.24.2007
2.18.2007
2.12.2007
...has become fact
Today, officially, The Police (it's a band if you're that young) will be going on tour this summer... and I am willing to go to any lengths to see this show... perhaps multiple times. I might lost any stable savings I have and I am entirely ok with this.
I love this band... and by "love" I mean, they have provided the most soundtrack music for my life than any other source... I have read books and dictionary's just to find out the inspiration and meanings of allusions and words used in their songs... I have rewound (because I owned the tapes first) "King of Pain" countless times just to hear the descending line of notes that follow "it's the same old thing as yesterday" that echo's the "It's my soul up there" melody... when I was 8 and taped it off the radio... seriously... I watched their videos on MTV after Synchronicity came out with wide eyes because they were the coolest thing on the planet. I LOVE this band... and they broke up before I was old enough to see them live.
But today I woke up in a new world. A world where a band called "The Police" exist... today... not in the past... and I just don't know what to do with myself. I, honestly (this is all so dramatic) feel like I'm living in a hazy dream.
It is such a good day.
I love this band... and by "love" I mean, they have provided the most soundtrack music for my life than any other source... I have read books and dictionary's just to find out the inspiration and meanings of allusions and words used in their songs... I have rewound (because I owned the tapes first) "King of Pain" countless times just to hear the descending line of notes that follow "it's the same old thing as yesterday" that echo's the "It's my soul up there" melody... when I was 8 and taped it off the radio... seriously... I watched their videos on MTV after Synchronicity came out with wide eyes because they were the coolest thing on the planet. I LOVE this band... and they broke up before I was old enough to see them live.
But today I woke up in a new world. A world where a band called "The Police" exist... today... not in the past... and I just don't know what to do with myself. I, honestly (this is all so dramatic) feel like I'm living in a hazy dream.
It is such a good day.
2.08.2007
Rumor...
Well anyone that knows me know that this rumor might have resulted in one of the greatest days of my life... I'm leaving the door open for other candidates but, who are we kidding, it's probably not likely.
I heard this and spent a rather embarassing moment lying on the floor. I had to move to the lowest point in the room I was so overwhelmed.
Sunday's gonna be a great day. Don't miss the opening act.
I heard this and spent a rather embarassing moment lying on the floor. I had to move to the lowest point in the room I was so overwhelmed.
Sunday's gonna be a great day. Don't miss the opening act.
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