I woke up this morning thinking about Sainte Chapelle, the gorgeous chapel in Paris, built in 1248. I visited the church for the first time in July with my niece and nephew, and I was just overwhelmed by its beauty: the stained glass windows are truly luminous. I guess the chapel must have been a part of a dream, but the more I tried to retrieve the dream, the more I started thinking about my travels in 2011 and then 2011 in general.
Would it seem like overstatement to say that 2011 was the best year of my life so far? Today, on December 31, 2011, that's the way it feels. This year, I saw rice paddies in rural China and Rembrandts in the Louvre in Paris. I rode a boat down the Thames and a bamboo raft up the Li. I ate Croque Monsieur and cow's stomach; I drank English ale and French wine and Chinese tea. My travels included a trip to Phoenix with my brother and sister-in-law, Beijing, Yangshou, and Shanghai with my friends, and Edinburgh, London, and Paris with my niece and nephew. It was the most remarkable travel year of my life--one I'm not sure I'll ever beat.
This fabulous year was marked by other opportunities, too. Sabbatical gave me time to collaborate with some wonderful people. I planned a 2012 study abroad program with a colleague I hadn't worked with much, and that's been great. I started a multi-year research project with four great colleagues--people who I really enjoy spending time with, research or not. And I've worked hard with my friend, Robin, on our book which, fingers crossed, will be on your library's shelves in mid-2012.
All of these things have been wonderful, but the very best thing about 2011 is something so simple and, for most of us, so fleeting: I've been truly happy. I haven't been happy every minute of every day, of course, but if I had to name a mood to label this year, it would be happiness. This year taught me who I can be if I make time for what I love. And it turns out that I love travel as much as I love reading a good book in a pool of sunlight on my porch in late spring. I love eating exotic foods in China as much as making a mystery meal out of a pile of veggies from the CSA. The common pleasures in life and the exotic ones: I feel like I discovered them both again this year, that I managed to make some old things new and to add some remarkable new things to my growing list. Here's to 2012!
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Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
No Pie For Me
I got some great Christmas gifts this year: pretty earrings, a clothes steamer, gift cards to interesting stores--even a percolator! I loved everything I received, but I have to say: I think It's been a long, long time since I've had a Christmas when I was absolutely dying to get one specific gift. When I was ten, I was just crazy about a baby doll I'd seen at Dunn Tires in the Perry Plaza. I don't know why the tire store had a toy section, but it did. Every Saturday, while my parents grocery shopped at the A&P, my little sister and I would wander through the five and dime and then head to the tire store to look at the dolls. Jane wanted the three foot tall Laura Walker doll who walked with you if you held her hand and moved forward with her in tow. I wanted the red haired baby doll in the frilly yellow dress and the cradle-shaped box. I thought I was a little old for a baby doll, but I wanted her so much. I asked for her for Christmas.
On Christmas Eve, our family gathered at my parents' house for dinner and a gift exchange. I can remember sitting on the living room floor, not far from the tree, watching the adults passing out the gifts. Somebody handed me a box that was definitely big enough to hold that red haired baby. I was so excited. I tore the wrapping paper off and struggled to open the box (one that was not cradle shaped, by the way), and inside, I found this:
Eskimo Pie doll was about as underwhelming to ten-year-old me as a gift could be, especially when I was sure I knew what was inside. I actually burst into tears when I saw her. It wasn't until the following year that I got that baby doll. I found her under the tree on Christmas morning, and even though I was 11 by then, I loved her. My mom crocheted sweaters and booties for her, and I slept with her every night.
When they were little, my nieces and nephews would sometimes ask me to tell them THE STORY OF ESKIMO PIE. They thought it was hilarious that I got so upset about a doll, that I still had the doll, and that doll has a big bulbous head and little flipper arms and legs. I still have the baby doll, too, but her hair turned brittle and cracked off years ago, so she hasn't held up as well as "Pie" has. So there you have it, in the span of a year, I received my most disappointing and most exciting Christmas gifts ever. I'm sure there's some lesson in all of this, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it all boils down to the old adage that its better to give then to receive. Then again, I'm not sure that my parents felt that giving was particularly edifying when they had to deal with a ten year old having a Christmas Eve meltdown.
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On Christmas Eve, our family gathered at my parents' house for dinner and a gift exchange. I can remember sitting on the living room floor, not far from the tree, watching the adults passing out the gifts. Somebody handed me a box that was definitely big enough to hold that red haired baby. I was so excited. I tore the wrapping paper off and struggled to open the box (one that was not cradle shaped, by the way), and inside, I found this:
Eskimo Pie doll was about as underwhelming to ten-year-old me as a gift could be, especially when I was sure I knew what was inside. I actually burst into tears when I saw her. It wasn't until the following year that I got that baby doll. I found her under the tree on Christmas morning, and even though I was 11 by then, I loved her. My mom crocheted sweaters and booties for her, and I slept with her every night.
When they were little, my nieces and nephews would sometimes ask me to tell them THE STORY OF ESKIMO PIE. They thought it was hilarious that I got so upset about a doll, that I still had the doll, and that doll has a big bulbous head and little flipper arms and legs. I still have the baby doll, too, but her hair turned brittle and cracked off years ago, so she hasn't held up as well as "Pie" has. So there you have it, in the span of a year, I received my most disappointing and most exciting Christmas gifts ever. I'm sure there's some lesson in all of this, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it all boils down to the old adage that its better to give then to receive. Then again, I'm not sure that my parents felt that giving was particularly edifying when they had to deal with a ten year old having a Christmas Eve meltdown.
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Saturday, December 24, 2011
Winter Walks
I'm in my hometown for Christmas, and I've taken a couple of good walks. Yesterday, I drove down to Presque Isle State Park, the 13 mile peninsula that juts out into Lake Erie. I've written about the park before, so I won't do that again. I will say that it's hunting season, so my walk was punctuated by the sound of not so distant gunfire.
I think it's deer season, but as I walked the path along the bay, I saw that the duck blinds were up, but the bay was just full of ducks, so if there was a hunter in the duck blind below, he was missing an opportunity.
I had a good walk. The lake in winter is never a disappointment. On gray days in summer, the lake and the sky almost disappear into each other. The sky is gray-white and the lake is grey-white. When I drive down the hill from my sister's house to the Bayfront Highway on days like that, it's almost like there is no lake at all off in the distance. On a gray winter's day, though, the lake is a dark steel blue--intense and dramatic, even five miles away on that hill. Yesterday the lake was gorgeous.
Today, I walked from my sister's house up to Wintergreen Gorge Cemetery. I've written about the gorge before, too, so I'll spare you that repeat. The walk up to the cemetery is lovely.
I love to walk in cemeteries, and Wintergreen Gorge Cemetery is fascinating. The headstones are like little memoirs. People have pictures of things that reflect the hobbies of their deceased loved ones--fishing poles, bowling pins, RVs, square dancers. They list the names of the children left behind, or tell where the person was born or where they served during wartime. Sometimes, they tell a story sbout how the person died, like this one.
Sad story on that stone, but, still, it was a nice spot for a walk.
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I think it's deer season, but as I walked the path along the bay, I saw that the duck blinds were up, but the bay was just full of ducks, so if there was a hunter in the duck blind below, he was missing an opportunity.
I had a good walk. The lake in winter is never a disappointment. On gray days in summer, the lake and the sky almost disappear into each other. The sky is gray-white and the lake is grey-white. When I drive down the hill from my sister's house to the Bayfront Highway on days like that, it's almost like there is no lake at all off in the distance. On a gray winter's day, though, the lake is a dark steel blue--intense and dramatic, even five miles away on that hill. Yesterday the lake was gorgeous.
Today, I walked from my sister's house up to Wintergreen Gorge Cemetery. I've written about the gorge before, too, so I'll spare you that repeat. The walk up to the cemetery is lovely.
I love to walk in cemeteries, and Wintergreen Gorge Cemetery is fascinating. The headstones are like little memoirs. People have pictures of things that reflect the hobbies of their deceased loved ones--fishing poles, bowling pins, RVs, square dancers. They list the names of the children left behind, or tell where the person was born or where they served during wartime. Sometimes, they tell a story sbout how the person died, like this one.
Sad story on that stone, but, still, it was a nice spot for a walk.
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Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Snow Country
I grew up on Lake Erie, in the land of lake effect snow. I remember plenty of times as a kid when we were snowed in--and being snowed in in snow country is serious business. Here in the Ohio Valley, a foot of snow can close down the city for a week. Up in the Great Lakes snow belt, a foot of snow is a pain, for sure, but it's no show stopper. A few years ago, we got a foot of snow here in Cincy. I happened to talk to my younger sister on the night of the big snow. I told her about the mess: the car accidents, broken tree limbs, the school closings. I asked her, "What about you? Did you get snow?". She made a sound that clearly meant "not really," and then she said, "Well, we got about 40 inches in the last couple of days." I gasped and asked if the kids were excited to be off school. "Oh, they're not off," she said. "They got the snow cleared off the roads overnight, so schools weren't cancelled.".
Everybody says that that's the difference between a snow country snowfall and a non-snow country one: one place is simply better prepared to clear the roads quickly. More plows, more salt trucks, more experience. I'm sure that's all true, but I think it's an attitude, too. When I was a northwestern Pennsylvanian, I had a pretty cocky attitude about driving in snow. I drove my parents' boat of a car--a big blue Pontiac Executive for a time--and it was outfitted with studded snow tires. I'd set out and aim my car for the deep hard-packed tire ruts In the snow, and off I'd go. I can remember getting stuck in snow banks several times, but I never remember being stuck for long. Neighbors would hear the familiar sound of studded tires spinning on the snow or ice, and somebody always came out to push. Once, on the corner of Perry and East 26th Street, I stopped too quickly at a stop sign and found myself jammed into a snow mountain a plow had formed on the side of the road. Within five minutes, a jeep pulled up. The driver jumped out, chain in tow, wrapped the chain around something on my car--who knows what--and then dragged me out of the drift. I gave him five bucks for his trouble, and we both set off. No mess, no stress.
Here, in southwestern Ohio, I am much more trepidatious in snow. It isn't because I don't trust my fellow Ohioans in the snow--well, not always. I don't trust myself anymore. I don't have the experience I used to have. I don't have the studded tires, either. I still yell at the drivers in front of me, screaming things like, "DON'T SLOW DOWN ON A HILL!!" but I mostly flounder around on the snow and ice just like they do. I retain my cockiness, but it's baseless.
I'm heading north soon for Christmas, and all reports say that the roads are clear. I'll pack a blanket in the trunk and make sure my cell phone is fully charged. Once I get up there, I'll hope for a white Christmas. They can handle it up there.
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Everybody says that that's the difference between a snow country snowfall and a non-snow country one: one place is simply better prepared to clear the roads quickly. More plows, more salt trucks, more experience. I'm sure that's all true, but I think it's an attitude, too. When I was a northwestern Pennsylvanian, I had a pretty cocky attitude about driving in snow. I drove my parents' boat of a car--a big blue Pontiac Executive for a time--and it was outfitted with studded snow tires. I'd set out and aim my car for the deep hard-packed tire ruts In the snow, and off I'd go. I can remember getting stuck in snow banks several times, but I never remember being stuck for long. Neighbors would hear the familiar sound of studded tires spinning on the snow or ice, and somebody always came out to push. Once, on the corner of Perry and East 26th Street, I stopped too quickly at a stop sign and found myself jammed into a snow mountain a plow had formed on the side of the road. Within five minutes, a jeep pulled up. The driver jumped out, chain in tow, wrapped the chain around something on my car--who knows what--and then dragged me out of the drift. I gave him five bucks for his trouble, and we both set off. No mess, no stress.
Here, in southwestern Ohio, I am much more trepidatious in snow. It isn't because I don't trust my fellow Ohioans in the snow--well, not always. I don't trust myself anymore. I don't have the experience I used to have. I don't have the studded tires, either. I still yell at the drivers in front of me, screaming things like, "DON'T SLOW DOWN ON A HILL!!" but I mostly flounder around on the snow and ice just like they do. I retain my cockiness, but it's baseless.
I'm heading north soon for Christmas, and all reports say that the roads are clear. I'll pack a blanket in the trunk and make sure my cell phone is fully charged. Once I get up there, I'll hope for a white Christmas. They can handle it up there.
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Sunday, December 18, 2011
College Hill Castle
I've lived in the Cincinnati neighborhood of College Hill since 1998. I walk regularly, and one of my favorite routes takes me past one of the most remarkable buildings in the area: Laurel Court, a Beaux Arts-style mansion built between 1902 and 1907 by Peter Thompson, the head of Champion Paper. Ah, the Gilded Age! Looks like something out of Gatsby, doesn't it?
Until today, all I really knew about the place was that it had been the residence of a couple of the city's archbishops, and that a couple of years after I moved into the neighborhood, the mansion was purchased after standing empty for some time, and that once the new owners got hold of the place, the grounds started looking fabulous. A new wrought iron fence went up, new statuary appeared, and the formal gardens started to look much more formal. Of course, the house stands on 7.5 acres, so from the sidewalk side of the fence, I couldn't see much. For years, I've been determined to get inside, and today, I did.
What I did t know about the place is that it's modeled after the Petit Trianon at Versailles, home of Marie Antoinette. Here it is so that you can compare images:
This past summer, I sat on a bench in front of the Petit Trianon at Versailles, too tired to even think about going inside, but it never occurred to me that I'd seen the building's near-twin in my own Cincinnati neighborhood. Near twin, indeed. Laurel Court's architect, James Gamble Rogers, added plenty of Versailles-esque details inside this 20,000 square foot mansion. The main staircase was imported from Europe, and it's said to be an exact replica of one in a Marie Antoinette's old digs. There's a music room on the main floor of Laurel Court that was modeled after a room at Versailles, and it is loaded with mirrors and gold leaf, crystal chandeliers and brocade prints. Here I am in said room.
There's a rosewood paneled room down the hall from the music room that I liked a lot. It's a big room, but the wood makes it feel warm. Here's my friend Karen sitting on one of the room's throne-like chairs.
My favorite part of the house--besides the lovely formal gardens, that is--was the two-story atrium. The owner who took us on the guided tour remarked that it reminded him of something from a Tuscan villa, and I'd have to agree. There are lots of arches and fountains, and the whole thing is covered by a big glass roof that can be rolled back in nice weather to let the warm breezes in. Here's my friend, Paul, in the atrium.
I don't know what state the mansion was in when the current owners bought it, but they seem to be good stewards of the place now. Some of the furniture they've purchased for the place is a bit "off" and the Christmas decorations could have used a decorator's touch, but the building itself is remarkable. What's more remarkable is that it's a five minute walk from my house. I'm glad I finally made it inside. Now when I walk past on an evening constitutional, I won't be quite as inclined to scale the fence and peer in the windows.
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Until today, all I really knew about the place was that it had been the residence of a couple of the city's archbishops, and that a couple of years after I moved into the neighborhood, the mansion was purchased after standing empty for some time, and that once the new owners got hold of the place, the grounds started looking fabulous. A new wrought iron fence went up, new statuary appeared, and the formal gardens started to look much more formal. Of course, the house stands on 7.5 acres, so from the sidewalk side of the fence, I couldn't see much. For years, I've been determined to get inside, and today, I did.
What I did t know about the place is that it's modeled after the Petit Trianon at Versailles, home of Marie Antoinette. Here it is so that you can compare images:
This past summer, I sat on a bench in front of the Petit Trianon at Versailles, too tired to even think about going inside, but it never occurred to me that I'd seen the building's near-twin in my own Cincinnati neighborhood. Near twin, indeed. Laurel Court's architect, James Gamble Rogers, added plenty of Versailles-esque details inside this 20,000 square foot mansion. The main staircase was imported from Europe, and it's said to be an exact replica of one in a Marie Antoinette's old digs. There's a music room on the main floor of Laurel Court that was modeled after a room at Versailles, and it is loaded with mirrors and gold leaf, crystal chandeliers and brocade prints. Here I am in said room.
There's a rosewood paneled room down the hall from the music room that I liked a lot. It's a big room, but the wood makes it feel warm. Here's my friend Karen sitting on one of the room's throne-like chairs.
My favorite part of the house--besides the lovely formal gardens, that is--was the two-story atrium. The owner who took us on the guided tour remarked that it reminded him of something from a Tuscan villa, and I'd have to agree. There are lots of arches and fountains, and the whole thing is covered by a big glass roof that can be rolled back in nice weather to let the warm breezes in. Here's my friend, Paul, in the atrium.
I don't know what state the mansion was in when the current owners bought it, but they seem to be good stewards of the place now. Some of the furniture they've purchased for the place is a bit "off" and the Christmas decorations could have used a decorator's touch, but the building itself is remarkable. What's more remarkable is that it's a five minute walk from my house. I'm glad I finally made it inside. Now when I walk past on an evening constitutional, I won't be quite as inclined to scale the fence and peer in the windows.
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Saturday, December 17, 2011
One Quarter Down
I've had a busy week, just like every other professor I know--at least the ones whose final grades were due, and that means everyone at my university. Up until Wednesday at 5pm, we'd pass each other in hallways at school and with a single glance we could tell who had finished grading and who was still buried. I was one of the long-buried ones. I have that magic ability to spread my grading out to perfectly fit the amount of time I have. If you give me until Wednesday at 5pm, I will finish by Wednesday at, well, at about 1pm. Those few hours I get done early give me a little comfort zone somehow. The good news is that my grades are in and I've only had one student complaint that fizzled as soon as I explained why he earned the grade he did.
Honestly, I don't ever remember a quarter where I doled out the As the way I did in my lit classes this quarter. No inflation; they earned them. My students remained engaged and and enthusiastic until the end, and I had some great final papers and exams. It's funny how human nature (or general grading crankiness) makes us complain most loudly about the students who don't meet the mark. I can't even bring myself to fully describe the two papers out of fifty where students wrote about topics that made me feel for a few minutes like I'd been harboring Holocaust deniers or Neo-Nazis all quarter. Happily, I guess, I could see a few pages in that it was poor writing not ideology that was the issue, not that I'm happy about poor writing, of course.
Still, it was a great quarter in many ways. I started the academic year with some concern that I'd never adjust after sabbatical, or that I'd completely lose the calm and happiness I'd found during my time off. Broken record that I am, I'll chalk my continuing life satisfaction up to the new thing campaign. Even when my new things don't involve trekking on the Great Wall or ambling across the Old Course, they add interest to my life. Of course, it also helps that I've finally learned a lesson that took me my whole career to learn: it's okay to take a day off. In fact, it's essential. On that note, I'm going to start my gloriously unscheduled Saturday.
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Honestly, I don't ever remember a quarter where I doled out the As the way I did in my lit classes this quarter. No inflation; they earned them. My students remained engaged and and enthusiastic until the end, and I had some great final papers and exams. It's funny how human nature (or general grading crankiness) makes us complain most loudly about the students who don't meet the mark. I can't even bring myself to fully describe the two papers out of fifty where students wrote about topics that made me feel for a few minutes like I'd been harboring Holocaust deniers or Neo-Nazis all quarter. Happily, I guess, I could see a few pages in that it was poor writing not ideology that was the issue, not that I'm happy about poor writing, of course.
Still, it was a great quarter in many ways. I started the academic year with some concern that I'd never adjust after sabbatical, or that I'd completely lose the calm and happiness I'd found during my time off. Broken record that I am, I'll chalk my continuing life satisfaction up to the new thing campaign. Even when my new things don't involve trekking on the Great Wall or ambling across the Old Course, they add interest to my life. Of course, it also helps that I've finally learned a lesson that took me my whole career to learn: it's okay to take a day off. In fact, it's essential. On that note, I'm going to start my gloriously unscheduled Saturday.
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Saturday, December 10, 2011
Glitz
I'm 53 years old, and I've never gone out to a big fancy party on New Year's Eve. I've been to plenty of low key ones--I've even hosted a few of those--but never one where you dress up in something with some glitz on it and go out for dinner and dancing. I usually save the last night of the year to do something super exciting, like in 1994, when I spent the evening recovering the seats of my dining room chairs and then crawling into bed by 11. Wild!
This year, I have plans that involve dinner and potential dancing. Oh yeah, they involve a wedding, too. One of my former students is getting married, and she's invited me and my friend, John (another of her former professors). I'd thought I'd just wear some dress I teach in, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought, no, this may be your last chance to be all fancy on New Year's Eve. So, tonight, I bought a great red dress and some glitzy jewelry to go with it. I need to get a pair of shoes--my orthopedic teaching heels simply won't work. I'm looking forward to my night out. This is the first of something like four student weddings I'll be going to this coming year. Think I can wear the red dress to all of them?
This year, I have plans that involve dinner and potential dancing. Oh yeah, they involve a wedding, too. One of my former students is getting married, and she's invited me and my friend, John (another of her former professors). I'd thought I'd just wear some dress I teach in, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought, no, this may be your last chance to be all fancy on New Year's Eve. So, tonight, I bought a great red dress and some glitzy jewelry to go with it. I need to get a pair of shoes--my orthopedic teaching heels simply won't work. I'm looking forward to my night out. This is the first of something like four student weddings I'll be going to this coming year. Think I can wear the red dress to all of them?
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Marking the Date
My friend, Lee, died two years ago today. I know some of you are marking the date with me today. All day long, I've been thinking about the ways he made me laugh--something he did regularly, even when he was sick. He cracked me up frequently when we traveled together for study abroad purposes in 2006 and 2007. I have this mental image of Lee sitting in a wingback chair in England, wearing my rhinestone accented reading glasses, or squeezed into my girly rain jacket, waiting for a bus (outside Auschwitz, of all places) and I bust out laughing. Sometimes he'd say something so unexpected I'd just lose it. Or he'd tell some story from his childhood--some crazy thing he did with his brothers: maybe it involved fire or fast cars--and it would just leave me crying with laughter. We miss him, those of us who had the pleasure of his friendship. Just for laughs, here's a silly 2007 shot of Lee.
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Sunday, December 4, 2011
Decorating History
I did a little Christmas decorating around the house last night. I put up my small tree, hung wreaths on the doors, and set out a few old family holiday decorations. When my parents died, my sibs and I divided up the cache of holiday decorations, and I ended up with lots of memory-filled items. When i was a kid, the Christmas season started in the Sipple house on St Nick's Day, December 6th. Before going to bed on the 5th, we'd write our letters to Santa--maybe draw him a picture or two--and hang them with tape from a bookcase shelf in the family room. The exact relationship between St. Nick and Santa was unclear. I don't think we saw them as the same person, but they were definitely in cahoots. Anyway, we'd head up to bed, take one bedroom slipper and place it on the floor at the foot of our bed, and then attempt to go to sleep. This was a pretty exciting night, so sleep was tough.
In the morning, our slippers would be filled to overflowing with foil wrapped chocolates and candy canes. We'd run downstairs to make absolutely sure that two things had happened: that St. Nick had taken our letters to Santa and left a note for us, and that he'd placed the snowman on top of the secretary (that would be a desk, not an administrative assistant). Here's a vintage note from St. Nick, circa 1963.
Now, back to that snowman. Since 1944 and the birth of my oldest brother, Tom, the styrofoam snowman was the first Christmas decoration of the season in the Sipple house, and it was St. Nick's job to place it on top of the secretary. The snowman appeared every single year on Dec. 6th, even years after we six Sipple kids were grown and out on our own. I inherited the secretary when my dad died in 2005, and the snowman came with it. Here he is (he looks pretty battered these days, but remember, he is in his late 60s.
The other family Christmas decorations that I inherited were several of the Christmas ornaments my Aunt Cille made. My craft-loving aunt latched onto that 70s craze of pinning sequins and baubles to satiny covered styrofoam ornaments, and she absolutely perfected the craft. She used odd bits of jewelry, wax seals off of liquor bottles, plastic figurines from Cracker Jack boxes--anything that was meaningful or whimsical or sparkly--and she adhered them onto ornaments in the most creative ways. I've been trying to photograph them, but my camera is resisting a good photo. Here are a couple of passable ones.
So there you have it: a Sipple Christmas. Remember, Tuesday is St. Nick's Day. Don't forget to put your slipper out!
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In the morning, our slippers would be filled to overflowing with foil wrapped chocolates and candy canes. We'd run downstairs to make absolutely sure that two things had happened: that St. Nick had taken our letters to Santa and left a note for us, and that he'd placed the snowman on top of the secretary (that would be a desk, not an administrative assistant). Here's a vintage note from St. Nick, circa 1963.
Now, back to that snowman. Since 1944 and the birth of my oldest brother, Tom, the styrofoam snowman was the first Christmas decoration of the season in the Sipple house, and it was St. Nick's job to place it on top of the secretary. The snowman appeared every single year on Dec. 6th, even years after we six Sipple kids were grown and out on our own. I inherited the secretary when my dad died in 2005, and the snowman came with it. Here he is (he looks pretty battered these days, but remember, he is in his late 60s.
The other family Christmas decorations that I inherited were several of the Christmas ornaments my Aunt Cille made. My craft-loving aunt latched onto that 70s craze of pinning sequins and baubles to satiny covered styrofoam ornaments, and she absolutely perfected the craft. She used odd bits of jewelry, wax seals off of liquor bottles, plastic figurines from Cracker Jack boxes--anything that was meaningful or whimsical or sparkly--and she adhered them onto ornaments in the most creative ways. I've been trying to photograph them, but my camera is resisting a good photo. Here are a couple of passable ones.
So there you have it: a Sipple Christmas. Remember, Tuesday is St. Nick's Day. Don't forget to put your slipper out!
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Saturday, December 3, 2011
Holiday Greens
I was born with a crafting gene. I might not be especially good at implementation, but I must admit that I enjoy pretending to be creative. I like arranging flowers, crocheting big squares of fabric that I laughingly call afghans, creating gift baskets filled with lots of little flowering plants, and beading necklaces and earrings. Doodling, scribbling, coloring: they're all up my alley.
Today, I did a December new thing that satisfied my crafty self. Along with my friends, Wanda and Karen, I took a Christmas wreath making class at a local garden center. This was a crowd familiar with hot glue. We stood at a table with a "naked" wreath of fresh greens in front of each of us. Our teacher, Anita, allowed us each to choose three ornaments, a couple of pine cones, three sprays of glittery artificial berries, and a big elaborate bow. We hauled our loot back to the table and started the creative process of arranging and adhering. I thought I had my wreath all prettied up when Anita stopped by the table. She took off the pine cones, swapped out a couple of red balls for silver ones, dismantled my berry sprays and moved them around, and presto chango, I had a finished wreath.
New thing number one for December is down, and it was a whole lot of fun.
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Today, I did a December new thing that satisfied my crafty self. Along with my friends, Wanda and Karen, I took a Christmas wreath making class at a local garden center. This was a crowd familiar with hot glue. We stood at a table with a "naked" wreath of fresh greens in front of each of us. Our teacher, Anita, allowed us each to choose three ornaments, a couple of pine cones, three sprays of glittery artificial berries, and a big elaborate bow. We hauled our loot back to the table and started the creative process of arranging and adhering. I thought I had my wreath all prettied up when Anita stopped by the table. She took off the pine cones, swapped out a couple of red balls for silver ones, dismantled my berry sprays and moved them around, and presto chango, I had a finished wreath.
New thing number one for December is down, and it was a whole lot of fun.
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Lighthouses
For some reason, I've been thinking about lighthouses today. I guess there's no telling what will trigger a memory. When my dad was alive, I'd visit him in Erie, and he'd take me for a drive that always rolled past two of the three lighthouses in town. When he got too old to drive, I'd take him on that same ride: down to the South Pier where even on the stormiest of days you can look out across the Channel towards Presque Isle's North Pier light, a black and white beacon set at the end of a long concrete pier that stretches out in to Lake Erie.
The lighthouse was built in the 1858 to guide ships into the Erie Harbor. In 1995, its Fresnel lens was removed and replaced with a flashing red light, but it continues to guide ships through the channel. I've walked the South Pier countless times, looking across the channel at its sister pier jutting north into the open lake with that distinctive black and white light at the end. Sometimes my dad would walk out with me, sometimes he'd wait on a bench and tell me to walk out. He knew how much I loved the lake.
Those drives with my dad would always head east toward his favorite Erie lighthouse, the Land Lighthouse. We'd head down to the foot of Lighthouse Lane, to a spot at the top of a bluff overlooking the harbor's eastern entrance. Honestly, its the strangest thing. Down at the end of this working class street is a lighthouse, far, far above the lake. Truly, its just plunked down at the end of a city street. And it's not just any lighthouse--not originally, at least. The first American lighthouse on the Great Lakes was built on this spot in 1818. It was replaced in 1858 with a structure that lasted only to 1866. It turns out that the spot they'd chosen was on a layer of quicksand. Third time is the charm, apparently, because the third Land Lighthouse, built in 1867 still stands today.
While I don't remember visiting the third Erie lighthouse very often with my dad, I did spend a lot of time there as a kid. Presque Isle Lighthouse is on the beach, smack dab in the middle of the state park. It was built in 1873 out of good strong bricks that could withstand the fierce gales blowing off of Lake Erie. I'm afraid my only digital shot of it is a drive by photo taken last winter. You can get a much better view of it from the lake side, so I've included a shot, courtesy of Penn State University.
I used to dream of living in this lighthouse. That still sounds completely appealing today. Lighthouses suggest safety to me, and in my hometown past, at least, that's all wrapped up in the most wonderful memories of my dad.
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The lighthouse was built in the 1858 to guide ships into the Erie Harbor. In 1995, its Fresnel lens was removed and replaced with a flashing red light, but it continues to guide ships through the channel. I've walked the South Pier countless times, looking across the channel at its sister pier jutting north into the open lake with that distinctive black and white light at the end. Sometimes my dad would walk out with me, sometimes he'd wait on a bench and tell me to walk out. He knew how much I loved the lake.
Those drives with my dad would always head east toward his favorite Erie lighthouse, the Land Lighthouse. We'd head down to the foot of Lighthouse Lane, to a spot at the top of a bluff overlooking the harbor's eastern entrance. Honestly, its the strangest thing. Down at the end of this working class street is a lighthouse, far, far above the lake. Truly, its just plunked down at the end of a city street. And it's not just any lighthouse--not originally, at least. The first American lighthouse on the Great Lakes was built on this spot in 1818. It was replaced in 1858 with a structure that lasted only to 1866. It turns out that the spot they'd chosen was on a layer of quicksand. Third time is the charm, apparently, because the third Land Lighthouse, built in 1867 still stands today.
While I don't remember visiting the third Erie lighthouse very often with my dad, I did spend a lot of time there as a kid. Presque Isle Lighthouse is on the beach, smack dab in the middle of the state park. It was built in 1873 out of good strong bricks that could withstand the fierce gales blowing off of Lake Erie. I'm afraid my only digital shot of it is a drive by photo taken last winter. You can get a much better view of it from the lake side, so I've included a shot, courtesy of Penn State University.
I used to dream of living in this lighthouse. That still sounds completely appealing today. Lighthouses suggest safety to me, and in my hometown past, at least, that's all wrapped up in the most wonderful memories of my dad.
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Friday, November 25, 2011
Black Friday
I have the Black Friday Blues. Seven hours of shopping with my sister, Jane, and several hundred dollars spent, and my dogs (and my wallet) are barking. We do this every year, and it's fun and productive, but it seriously wears me out.
We hit Romolo Chocolates first. Romolo's is one of three Erie Chocolatiers. The place hit the scene in 1994, and I think it's now my favorite. My former favorite is Pulakos 926 Chocolates, which I still absolutely love. Stefanelli's Chocolates is my third place pick. Honestly, though, any of these chocolates beat any I've had in the world. Yep. Even Belgium. I swear to God, I spent $165 at Romolo's today. None of it is for me: every bit of it is a Christmas gift for somebody.
Our next stop was a small department store where we bought a few things for Jane's kids. Then we hit the mall. The Millcreek Mall is the only one in Erie, and it was jam packed today. For the last two years, the place was dead on Black Friday, so I take today's activities as a sign of an economic upturn. I know I did my bit to turn around the economy today. So did several busloads of Canadians, for that matter. Believe it or not, Erie is a prime shopping destination for our neighbors to the north. Why would Toronto sophisticates drive three hours to a rustbelt city in another country to shop? Cheaper prices and no taxes on clothing. They seriously do come by the busload. Jane and I could have used a bus to haul our bounty home. We loaded up her minivan, had a bite to eat, and hit Target.
Seven hours after we started, we were back home, too exhausted to haul the bags out of the van. So we parked it in the garage, and came inside for a little rehabilitation in the form of leftover pie. For as much as I complain about my aching feet and empty wallet, I enjoy this tradition. It's a nice outing with my sister.
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We hit Romolo Chocolates first. Romolo's is one of three Erie Chocolatiers. The place hit the scene in 1994, and I think it's now my favorite. My former favorite is Pulakos 926 Chocolates, which I still absolutely love. Stefanelli's Chocolates is my third place pick. Honestly, though, any of these chocolates beat any I've had in the world. Yep. Even Belgium. I swear to God, I spent $165 at Romolo's today. None of it is for me: every bit of it is a Christmas gift for somebody.
Our next stop was a small department store where we bought a few things for Jane's kids. Then we hit the mall. The Millcreek Mall is the only one in Erie, and it was jam packed today. For the last two years, the place was dead on Black Friday, so I take today's activities as a sign of an economic upturn. I know I did my bit to turn around the economy today. So did several busloads of Canadians, for that matter. Believe it or not, Erie is a prime shopping destination for our neighbors to the north. Why would Toronto sophisticates drive three hours to a rustbelt city in another country to shop? Cheaper prices and no taxes on clothing. They seriously do come by the busload. Jane and I could have used a bus to haul our bounty home. We loaded up her minivan, had a bite to eat, and hit Target.
Seven hours after we started, we were back home, too exhausted to haul the bags out of the van. So we parked it in the garage, and came inside for a little rehabilitation in the form of leftover pie. For as much as I complain about my aching feet and empty wallet, I enjoy this tradition. It's a nice outing with my sister.
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Turkey Trot
Yesterday, I walked in my third hometown Turkey Trot--the annual Thanksgiving day 5K walk and 5 or 10K run. The race follows a road that hugs the Lake Erie shoreline at Presque Isle State Park, and that is its biggest draw, as far as I'm concerned. I love the lake, and I never feel that a visit to Erie is complete without an up close visit. The other draw is the exercise on a day when my calorie count is likely to be nearly as big a number as the national debt. This year I went with my brother-in-law, Frank, and my nephew, Andy. My niece, Maria, usually joins us, but she was down with a virus. Frank and Andy ran the 5K while walked. Here are some pre-race shots.
That's Andy next to banana boy. I'm always amused by the costumes and hats that the more eccentric runners and walkers wear on race day. Here's a guy in a pair of pink foot pajamas, for instance.
Of course, there were an endless variety of turkey hats on display.
My favorite eccentrics yesterday were the two guys who walked the entire 5K on six-foot stilts. I couldn't get a good shot, but this gives you an idea.
I had a pretty good walk. I have plantar fasciitis in both feet and arthritis in both knees, but I keep on moving. I walk most every day, so it's not like the 3.1 mile walk was anything extraordinary. Doing it with a few thousand people is a challenge, though.
My aches and pains slowed me down this year, but I was motivated by a father and son who seemed to walk beside me for a good portion of the second half of the race. I'd pass them then fall behind over and over again. On two of my passes, I heard the father say, not-so-silently to the son, "pick up the pace! Even the grandmothers are passing us.". Grandmother? Please!
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That's Andy next to banana boy. I'm always amused by the costumes and hats that the more eccentric runners and walkers wear on race day. Here's a guy in a pair of pink foot pajamas, for instance.
Of course, there were an endless variety of turkey hats on display.
My favorite eccentrics yesterday were the two guys who walked the entire 5K on six-foot stilts. I couldn't get a good shot, but this gives you an idea.
I had a pretty good walk. I have plantar fasciitis in both feet and arthritis in both knees, but I keep on moving. I walk most every day, so it's not like the 3.1 mile walk was anything extraordinary. Doing it with a few thousand people is a challenge, though.
My aches and pains slowed me down this year, but I was motivated by a father and son who seemed to walk beside me for a good portion of the second half of the race. I'd pass them then fall behind over and over again. On two of my passes, I heard the father say, not-so-silently to the son, "pick up the pace! Even the grandmothers are passing us.". Grandmother? Please!
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Sunday, November 20, 2011
Belly Dancing and Birthdays
I have such good friends. Of course, I know that all year round, but it's especially clear near my birthday when I get lots invitations to celebrate. For a single woman in a town without any family, that's a wonderful thing. Last night, my dear friend, Jen, took me to an early birthday dinner at Andy's Mediterranean Grille, and it was a fabulous meal--one that made the crammed-in-the-entry-way 35-minute wait worth it.
I'd been to Andy's once before, years ago when I lived in that neighborhood, and I'd remembered it as a place I enjoyed. We parked the car about a block away--no lot, sadly--and as soon as we got out of the car, we were hit with the fantastic aroma of Lebanese cooking. The place was busy at 7pm on a Saturday night--I even saw a colleague and his wife (I nearly snatched their to-go box from his hands...we were so hungry). We got a table eventually, and they got us food quickly. We started with the Mediterranean Platter: hummus, olives, tabbouleh, baba ganoush, and kibbeh, served with a basket of homemade pita bread. Oh man. I could have cancelled the entree order and have been perfectly happy with the appetizer and wine I'd ordered. But I didn't.
I had the Shish Tawook: four (good lord: four?) chicken kabobs marinated in the spicy sauce combination that had produced the fabulous aroma we'd smelled on our way in. Jen ordered Shish Kharouf: two charbroiled lamb and veggie kabobs. Both dishes came with delicious, fluffy rice. We did a little sharing, and I can verify that both dishes were wonderful, and big enough that we both brought home enough for one or two more meals. Near the end of the meal, the entertainment started: belly dancing. One lone belly dancer moved from room to room in the restaurant, shaking and shimmying to the middle eastern music. Frankly, by that point in the meal, Jen and I felt like we should be doing some serious exercise to work off our dinner.
The meal and the company were fantastic. Thank God for birthdays. Thank God for good friends.
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I'd been to Andy's once before, years ago when I lived in that neighborhood, and I'd remembered it as a place I enjoyed. We parked the car about a block away--no lot, sadly--and as soon as we got out of the car, we were hit with the fantastic aroma of Lebanese cooking. The place was busy at 7pm on a Saturday night--I even saw a colleague and his wife (I nearly snatched their to-go box from his hands...we were so hungry). We got a table eventually, and they got us food quickly. We started with the Mediterranean Platter: hummus, olives, tabbouleh, baba ganoush, and kibbeh, served with a basket of homemade pita bread. Oh man. I could have cancelled the entree order and have been perfectly happy with the appetizer and wine I'd ordered. But I didn't.
I had the Shish Tawook: four (good lord: four?) chicken kabobs marinated in the spicy sauce combination that had produced the fabulous aroma we'd smelled on our way in. Jen ordered Shish Kharouf: two charbroiled lamb and veggie kabobs. Both dishes came with delicious, fluffy rice. We did a little sharing, and I can verify that both dishes were wonderful, and big enough that we both brought home enough for one or two more meals. Near the end of the meal, the entertainment started: belly dancing. One lone belly dancer moved from room to room in the restaurant, shaking and shimmying to the middle eastern music. Frankly, by that point in the meal, Jen and I felt like we should be doing some serious exercise to work off our dinner.
The meal and the company were fantastic. Thank God for birthdays. Thank God for good friends.
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Saturday, November 19, 2011
I Will Recline
This is my birthday month, so I think that means that it's okay to buy myself a present, right? Right or wrong, I did it today. There's this red leather chair I've been eying for a few years now--it's soft and cushy and it's sort of stylish. You might not know from looking at it that it's a small recliner. I've measured the space in my living room at least five times over the years, trying to see if the chair would fit. I'm never exactly sure. It's bigger then the uncomfortable chair that currently sits there, and because of that, I always give up and decide that I don't need it.
Well, this time, with the encouragement of friends who are sick of hearing me talk about wanting a comfortable chair, I bought it. It will be delivered next month, but I'm counting it as a new thing for November. Happy birthday to me.
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Well, this time, with the encouragement of friends who are sick of hearing me talk about wanting a comfortable chair, I bought it. It will be delivered next month, but I'm counting it as a new thing for November. Happy birthday to me.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
From Auschwitz to Ohio
Between April and July 1944, 440,000 Hungarian Jews were deported to Auschwitz. According to the U.S. Holocaust Museum, the SS sent about 320,000 of them immediately to the gas chambers in Auschwitz-Birkenau. The other 110,000 were sent into forced labor somewhere in the Auschwitz concentration camp complex or to other camps in Germany and Austria. The Hungarian Jews made up the last transports into Auschwitz-Birkenau before the camps fell to the Soviets in January 1945.
Maria S. was 15 years old when she and her family were forced onto a transport train headed towards Poland. She remembers standing on the ramp inside Birkenau waiting for a man she identifies today as Dr. Josef Mengele (the notorious Nazi angel of death) to make his selections: who would live and who would die? Maria had been warned to lie about her age, to say that she was 17 or 18, so that she wouldn't be seen as a useless child who would be gassed immediately. Maria, her mother, her sister and aunt were spared in that first selection. Her father was not. He was a Jew and a political dissident, and he was taken directly to the gas chamber.
Sometime early on in her imprisonment in Birkenau, Maria contracted rheumatic fever. She was gravely ill, but her mother and aunt knew that it would be fatal to ask for medical help. To do so would be to condemn her to death, to point out to the SS that she was no longer useful. Instead, they nursed her back to health as best they could, physically supporting her during long daily roll calls, somehow disguising the fact that she was weak and sick. She recovered in time for what would be their luckiest moment. The SS needed a couple hundred female prisoners to work in a factory associated with an Auschwitz satellite camp, and Maria and all of her female relatives were selected to be a part of that group. The work was likely hard, but the conditions must have been at least somewhat better than they had been in the death camp. And then it was January 1945.
The Soviet army was advancing, and German defeat seemed imminent. While the majority of prisoners in Auschwitz-Birkenau embarked on a forced march out of the camps and towards Germany on foot and in bitter winter conditions, Maria and her family were loaded onto a train and transported by rail in that direction. This was her second lucky break. The death marches were brutal: sick and malnourished prisoners in nothing but thin, I'll-fitting camp uniforms died by the thousands on these marches. Somewhere on that train trip from Poland and Germany, the train stopped and was attacked by the Allies, who killed all but one SS guard. Seeing that he was outnumbered, the guard gave up his post, thereby freeing all of the prisoners. Maria's final lucky break resulted in survival. With her family, she made it back to her hometown, and then, in time, to Detroit, MI where distant family sponsored them so that they could immigrate. In time, she met and married another Holocaust survivor and moved to southwest Ohio. She had two daughters and, eventually, a granddaughter named Amanda. Amanda is a student in my Holocaust literature class.
Two classes ago, Amanda told me about her grandmother and asked me if she could bring her to class someday. Of course, I said yes. She explained that Maria was suffering from some dementia now, and that she'd bring her mom and aunt to help her tell her survival story, and last Thursday, they came. Maria, her daughters and her granddaughter sat at the front of the room--a real testimony to survival, these three generations. Maria said a little bit, but she mostly relied on her daughters to tell her story. Her presence was powerful for me and my students, turning the things we've read about all quarter into flesh and blood. At one point, Maria rolled up the sleeve of her wool sweater to show my students the number the Nazis had tattooed on her arm during her first hours in Auschwitz.
As she was getting ready to go, one of my kind students presented her with a bunch of flowers she had been thoughtful enough to pick up on her way to class. Maria was so touched by this. She hugged the student and then she made her way around one side of the classroom, shaking hands with the students there and receiving their thank yous. I stood by the door and watched the rest of the class stand, nearly in unison, and move toward her with outstretched hands: each of them wanted to shake her hand and thank her. There was something so moving to me in that moment--something I can't quite put into words; I feel certain that this is a moment that will stay with me forever. Maria hugged me twice before leaving with her daughters. I think she appreciated the visit, and I'm glad for that. Mostly, though, I'm honored to have had the opportunity to meet her and to hear her story, and I'm so grateful that she could come to my class. Sometimes the most educational moments have very little to do with the professor.
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Maria S. was 15 years old when she and her family were forced onto a transport train headed towards Poland. She remembers standing on the ramp inside Birkenau waiting for a man she identifies today as Dr. Josef Mengele (the notorious Nazi angel of death) to make his selections: who would live and who would die? Maria had been warned to lie about her age, to say that she was 17 or 18, so that she wouldn't be seen as a useless child who would be gassed immediately. Maria, her mother, her sister and aunt were spared in that first selection. Her father was not. He was a Jew and a political dissident, and he was taken directly to the gas chamber.
Sometime early on in her imprisonment in Birkenau, Maria contracted rheumatic fever. She was gravely ill, but her mother and aunt knew that it would be fatal to ask for medical help. To do so would be to condemn her to death, to point out to the SS that she was no longer useful. Instead, they nursed her back to health as best they could, physically supporting her during long daily roll calls, somehow disguising the fact that she was weak and sick. She recovered in time for what would be their luckiest moment. The SS needed a couple hundred female prisoners to work in a factory associated with an Auschwitz satellite camp, and Maria and all of her female relatives were selected to be a part of that group. The work was likely hard, but the conditions must have been at least somewhat better than they had been in the death camp. And then it was January 1945.
The Soviet army was advancing, and German defeat seemed imminent. While the majority of prisoners in Auschwitz-Birkenau embarked on a forced march out of the camps and towards Germany on foot and in bitter winter conditions, Maria and her family were loaded onto a train and transported by rail in that direction. This was her second lucky break. The death marches were brutal: sick and malnourished prisoners in nothing but thin, I'll-fitting camp uniforms died by the thousands on these marches. Somewhere on that train trip from Poland and Germany, the train stopped and was attacked by the Allies, who killed all but one SS guard. Seeing that he was outnumbered, the guard gave up his post, thereby freeing all of the prisoners. Maria's final lucky break resulted in survival. With her family, she made it back to her hometown, and then, in time, to Detroit, MI where distant family sponsored them so that they could immigrate. In time, she met and married another Holocaust survivor and moved to southwest Ohio. She had two daughters and, eventually, a granddaughter named Amanda. Amanda is a student in my Holocaust literature class.
Two classes ago, Amanda told me about her grandmother and asked me if she could bring her to class someday. Of course, I said yes. She explained that Maria was suffering from some dementia now, and that she'd bring her mom and aunt to help her tell her survival story, and last Thursday, they came. Maria, her daughters and her granddaughter sat at the front of the room--a real testimony to survival, these three generations. Maria said a little bit, but she mostly relied on her daughters to tell her story. Her presence was powerful for me and my students, turning the things we've read about all quarter into flesh and blood. At one point, Maria rolled up the sleeve of her wool sweater to show my students the number the Nazis had tattooed on her arm during her first hours in Auschwitz.
As she was getting ready to go, one of my kind students presented her with a bunch of flowers she had been thoughtful enough to pick up on her way to class. Maria was so touched by this. She hugged the student and then she made her way around one side of the classroom, shaking hands with the students there and receiving their thank yous. I stood by the door and watched the rest of the class stand, nearly in unison, and move toward her with outstretched hands: each of them wanted to shake her hand and thank her. There was something so moving to me in that moment--something I can't quite put into words; I feel certain that this is a moment that will stay with me forever. Maria hugged me twice before leaving with her daughters. I think she appreciated the visit, and I'm glad for that. Mostly, though, I'm honored to have had the opportunity to meet her and to hear her story, and I'm so grateful that she could come to my class. Sometimes the most educational moments have very little to do with the professor.
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Sunday, November 13, 2011
High Culture on a Low Budget
My house painter is an artist! I knew this when I hired her to paint the exterior of my house in 2004, the downstairs in 2007, and the upstairs in 2009, but I didn't really know it until I went to the opening of her art show on Friday night with my friends Wanda and Karen. It's a little off-putting to see someone you know in one capacity in a totally different light, and that's how I felt at the opening. I liked her work a lot, but I couldn't reconcile it with the work done by the person who helped me decide on Athenian Green and Mountain Spring Blue as the colors of my bedrooms. It makes me feel like Cinderella's step mother should have felt when she had the poor girl sweeping out the fireplaces. But an artist has to eat, and this one does it by painting houses really well.
After the opening, we went to a wine bar in my neighborhood. The place was seriously hopping. For $10 each, we did the wine tasting and we each got six glasses of various wines, each one about 1/3 of a full glass. In addition, they had a giant platter of various cheeses, crackers, and bread and olive tapenade to nibble on. Quite a deal, though I pooped out after the fourth glass. I'm just thrilled to see a thriving business in my neighborhood. It's nice to know that life is coming back to College Hill.
All in all, it was a nice night out. An art opening and a wine tasting for $10. Not bad.
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After the opening, we went to a wine bar in my neighborhood. The place was seriously hopping. For $10 each, we did the wine tasting and we each got six glasses of various wines, each one about 1/3 of a full glass. In addition, they had a giant platter of various cheeses, crackers, and bread and olive tapenade to nibble on. Quite a deal, though I pooped out after the fourth glass. I'm just thrilled to see a thriving business in my neighborhood. It's nice to know that life is coming back to College Hill.
All in all, it was a nice night out. An art opening and a wine tasting for $10. Not bad.
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Domestic Goddess
Today, I was a domestic goddess. Well, I was domestic: the goddess part is just silly. I managed to squeeze in some work--some grading and a couple of letters of recommendation made it off my to-do list--but I sent most of the day cooking, gardening, and crafting (if that's a word). Right now I have a pot roast doing it's thing in my oven. It seemed like the perfect recipe to use up that left over half a bottle of Merlot, those long off the vine CSA potatoes, turnips, and carrots, and that chuck roast that's been hanging around my freezer for lo these many weeks. Damn, it smells good in here. I used a brand new iPad app to find the recipe. It's called Big Oven, and its filled with recipes by your average American home cook. Nothing fancy, as far as I can tell. I'll call that app my new tech thing for November.
Before I started this slow roasting dinner, I went to my neighborhood plant nursery to poke around for end-of-the-season deals, and while I didn't find any, I did see some pretty Thanksgiving centerpieces. They were a bit pricy, but I thought it would be a nice thing to take up to my hometown for the Thanksgiving table at my sister's house. Always the cheapskate, I headed for a nearby craft store where the big fall sale was on. Two wicker cornucopias later, I'm happy to say that I've created a couple of super cheap holiday centerpieces. I'd venture to say they cost me five dollars each: a couple of bunches of silk flowers, some fake fruit, a couple of bags of nuts and pine cones, and there you have them. I think they look about as good as the ones I saw at the nursery, but they cost about $25 less. Pretty crafty, huh?
I rounded off my domestic day by baking cornbread, doing some garden cleanup, and taking care of some laundry and bills. Right now, I'm sitting here sipping what's left of the Merlot and feeling pretty proud of myself for having a nice, well- rounded day. Here's to all of you.
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Before I started this slow roasting dinner, I went to my neighborhood plant nursery to poke around for end-of-the-season deals, and while I didn't find any, I did see some pretty Thanksgiving centerpieces. They were a bit pricy, but I thought it would be a nice thing to take up to my hometown for the Thanksgiving table at my sister's house. Always the cheapskate, I headed for a nearby craft store where the big fall sale was on. Two wicker cornucopias later, I'm happy to say that I've created a couple of super cheap holiday centerpieces. I'd venture to say they cost me five dollars each: a couple of bunches of silk flowers, some fake fruit, a couple of bags of nuts and pine cones, and there you have them. I think they look about as good as the ones I saw at the nursery, but they cost about $25 less. Pretty crafty, huh?
I rounded off my domestic day by baking cornbread, doing some garden cleanup, and taking care of some laundry and bills. Right now, I'm sitting here sipping what's left of the Merlot and feeling pretty proud of myself for having a nice, well- rounded day. Here's to all of you.
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Saturday, November 12, 2011
Harlaxton Dreaming
I've been thinking more and more about my summer study abroad program. I have to say that taking young people on their first trip abroad ranks right up there on my list of favorite things to do. It's like Christmas morning in a houseful of little ones. This summer will mark my third study abroad trip as a part of the UCBA Summer British Study Abroad Program. Every year, our program is led by a different team of professors, but the one thing that remains the same is our home base: Harlaxton Manor in Lincolnshire, England. Here are a couple of shots of this remarkable place:
There's this moment when you're headed towards Harlaxton with a bus load of jet-lagged students. You come around a bend on the road leading you up towards the manor, and there, up in the distance, it sits up on a hill in all of its glory. Spectacular! I can remember that moment in 2007, and how in my jet-lagged state, I had the presence of mind to point it out to my group. They literally gasped.
It really is an astounding place. Our program director, Mike, calls it magical, and I think he's right. I'll write more about the manor this summer when I'm there, though, so I'll wait until then to describe its magic. The place is said to be haunted, too, and I know I'll feel that some this year--for personal reasons. In 2007, my trip co-leader was my friend, Lee. Lee died almost two years ago, but the time we shared with our group of 18 students remains among my favorite all-time memories. I suspect that I'll feel Lee's presence pretty frequently at Harlaxton. I'm actually looking forward to that, too. Sometimes bittersweet is just right.
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There's this moment when you're headed towards Harlaxton with a bus load of jet-lagged students. You come around a bend on the road leading you up towards the manor, and there, up in the distance, it sits up on a hill in all of its glory. Spectacular! I can remember that moment in 2007, and how in my jet-lagged state, I had the presence of mind to point it out to my group. They literally gasped.
It really is an astounding place. Our program director, Mike, calls it magical, and I think he's right. I'll write more about the manor this summer when I'm there, though, so I'll wait until then to describe its magic. The place is said to be haunted, too, and I know I'll feel that some this year--for personal reasons. In 2007, my trip co-leader was my friend, Lee. Lee died almost two years ago, but the time we shared with our group of 18 students remains among my favorite all-time memories. I suspect that I'll feel Lee's presence pretty frequently at Harlaxton. I'm actually looking forward to that, too. Sometimes bittersweet is just right.
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Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Book Deal
New thing for November? A book deal, thank you very much! My friend, Robin, and I have been waiting for months to hear back about a proposal for a faculty development book we sent to the publisher, and on Sunday night, the email arrived. We have a deal. People seem pretty underwhelmed by this news, but we're excited. Let me just say that if you have writers in your life, and those writers get a book deal, make a teeny tiny fuss about it. Just an enthusiastic "YAY!" is about right.
Also on the professional front, I presented at a conference in Louisville today with four colleagues, and we packed the room. Our session included findings from two studies on study abroad pre-trip activities. The conference hotel was the Seelbach Hilton. The hotel website says that the place was built in 1905 its "grand ambiance inspiring author F. Scott Fitzgerald to use The Seelbach as a backdrop for Tom and Daisy Buchanan's wedding in The Great Gatsby.". Delightful. Here are some photos of my research group and the Seelbach.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Also on the professional front, I presented at a conference in Louisville today with four colleagues, and we packed the room. Our session included findings from two studies on study abroad pre-trip activities. The conference hotel was the Seelbach Hilton. The hotel website says that the place was built in 1905 its "grand ambiance inspiring author F. Scott Fitzgerald to use The Seelbach as a backdrop for Tom and Daisy Buchanan's wedding in The Great Gatsby.". Delightful. Here are some photos of my research group and the Seelbach.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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