I am going to die by dog. I know it. It might be while I'm going running down Sand Lick Road, and one of the crazed, bloodthirsty coon dogs breaks the chain off its doghouse and rips to me little bitty shreds. It might be from a deadly virus that I pick up cuddling participants' dogs while they wash my face with their disease infested tongues. It might be from careening off a cliff trying to avoid a dog sitting - sitting! - in the middle of the road.
The long and short of it is, there are so many dogs in Kentucky. There are mean dogs chained to porches, hunting dogs chained to barns, big white snowy dogs at the dump, little half-starved beagle dogs at our storage barn, and adorable flea infested puppy-dogs at our volunteer house. There are dogs with the body of a Basset hound and the head of a German shepherd like a surreal mythological beast, and there are dogs with no front legs that walk upright on their back legs like a creepy dog-person. There are old dogs by the side of the road, and hungry dogs outside the tobacco drive-through, and tired dogs under rusty tractors, and lost dogs in fields, and mommy-dogs with unlimited supplies of puppies, and dogs that are lame, and dogs that smell funny. This post is just inches away from morphing into a children's book ("The red dog is in. The blue dog is out.")
Moral of the story: If you need a dog, please come to Kentucky and take some of our dogs away.
Moral of the story #2: Spay and neuter your dog. Please.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Elvis Resurrected!
Mrs. Mary J was my absolutist favorite participant. We were at her house working for about three weeks, and while we were there we blew insulation into her roof, replaced a huge picture window in her living room, and built an 8x10 porch with a roof for the back door. It was my favorite kind of work - fast-paced, interesting, pretty easy to figure out but sometimes pretty challenging to implement (I have a great memory of my coworker T lying on her back on the house roof, trying to screw things in under the overlap of the porch roof, while I stood on the ladder under her holding her feet up because if I didn't, she'd slide right off the metal roof that was totally covered in sawdust - and of course, both of us giggling and snorting up sawdust and coughing and commenting that "this would be a super interesting way to die!"). Leaving Mrs. Mary J's house was a little heartbreaking. Back to slow, boring jobs - back to grumpy participants - back to groups (oh BOY.)
I'd like to try and paint a picture of Mrs. Mary J, but I think that I'll probably fail. She was a short, stoutish lady with wispy grey hair and wee little spindly glasses. She rocked out Kentucky fashion better than anyone I've met here, with her denim skirt, baseball hat, and her husband's camo t-shirt. She made it look classy and practical. Probably the greatest thing about her was how often she said "well." Except she said it "way-uhl!" And she used it for everything. It could be a question, or a statement, an expression of shock, disapproval or pleasure, or just a filler word to let you know that she saw still listening, depending on her intonation.
Most of what made Mrs. Mary J so delightful was how un-self-conscious she was, and how simply she saw the world and herself. Very trusting of all of us (sometimes I had to retract a joke that I made, because she widened her eyes and said "WAY-uhl!" and I knew that she thought it was true... oops), deeply genuine, super kind, really joyful, hospitable (let me tell you about her delicious venison that we got to eat for lunch several times!) and grateful for everything that happened to her house. She was like a kid on Christmas morning, every single day - "Wah-uhl, these here windows you'uns are puttin' in are like $500,000 dollar house windows!"
This is my favorite story about Mrs. Mary J. We're putting up gutters on the side of the house, and she comes out to tell us that there is a festival coming up soon that Elvis will be playing at. (Impersonators are sort of everywhere in Kentucky - Elvis and Michael Jackson were both in Berea a few weekends ago).
So she gives us the news of the festival, then wanders back inside and we keep up working. Ten minutes go by. Then - the door bangs open! Mrs. Mary J flies out of it! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is open!
"Way-uhl!" she gasps, "Elvis is dead!"
Oh my goodness me, the look on Steve's face.
What I'm really curious about is the first thing that went through her mind when she realized that Elvis is dead AND that Elvis was playing at the festival. Oh, lovely.
I really miss Mrs. Mary J.
I'd like to try and paint a picture of Mrs. Mary J, but I think that I'll probably fail. She was a short, stoutish lady with wispy grey hair and wee little spindly glasses. She rocked out Kentucky fashion better than anyone I've met here, with her denim skirt, baseball hat, and her husband's camo t-shirt. She made it look classy and practical. Probably the greatest thing about her was how often she said "well." Except she said it "way-uhl!" And she used it for everything. It could be a question, or a statement, an expression of shock, disapproval or pleasure, or just a filler word to let you know that she saw still listening, depending on her intonation.
Most of what made Mrs. Mary J so delightful was how un-self-conscious she was, and how simply she saw the world and herself. Very trusting of all of us (sometimes I had to retract a joke that I made, because she widened her eyes and said "WAY-uhl!" and I knew that she thought it was true... oops), deeply genuine, super kind, really joyful, hospitable (let me tell you about her delicious venison that we got to eat for lunch several times!) and grateful for everything that happened to her house. She was like a kid on Christmas morning, every single day - "Wah-uhl, these here windows you'uns are puttin' in are like $500,000 dollar house windows!"
This is my favorite story about Mrs. Mary J. We're putting up gutters on the side of the house, and she comes out to tell us that there is a festival coming up soon that Elvis will be playing at. (Impersonators are sort of everywhere in Kentucky - Elvis and Michael Jackson were both in Berea a few weekends ago).
So she gives us the news of the festival, then wanders back inside and we keep up working. Ten minutes go by. Then - the door bangs open! Mrs. Mary J flies out of it! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is open!
"Way-uhl!" she gasps, "Elvis is dead!"
Oh my goodness me, the look on Steve's face.
What I'm really curious about is the first thing that went through her mind when she realized that Elvis is dead AND that Elvis was playing at the festival. Oh, lovely.
I really miss Mrs. Mary J.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
grad school better be worth this
Here's what it looks like to write an essay for graduate school:
Google:
"How to write a personal statement"
"Yale statistics"
"Yale GRE scores"
"Notre Dame GRE scores"
"How to write a personal statement"
"Yale statistics"
"Yale GRE scores"
"Notre Dame GRE scores"
open word document. read 11 pages of drafting. cut. paste. read opening paragraph. read it again.
Google:
"catchy opening statements graduate school"
"gradcafe.com MDiv personal statement"
"Boston College admissions"
"Boston Museum of Fine Arts"
"bus Boston-NH"
"Portsmouth NH shows"
bullet points: what makes me unique. why i am special. why you should accept me into your school and then give me 40,000 a year.
Google:
"catchy opening statements graduate school"
"gradcafe.com MDiv personal statement"
"Boston College admissions"
"Boston Museum of Fine Arts"
"bus Boston-NH"
"Portsmouth NH shows"
bullet points: what makes me unique. why i am special. why you should accept me into your school and then give me 40,000 a year.
... i like jesus. also i like ... philosophy... and ... the color... green ...
Google:
"why graduate school"
"WWOOFing in Italy"
"culinary schools"
"massage therapy"
"spas in lexington ky"
open a new word document. (entitled "Another Statement of Intent" in order to distinguish it from documents "Statement of Intent" and "New Statement of Intent") catchy opening statement: "i have been worrying over Truth since...".
Google:
"worrying definition"
"What the Bible Says About Worry"
-> "What the Bible Says about Women in Ministry"
-> Wikipedia: Famous Female Philosophers
-> Simone de Beauvoir
>-existentialism
-> Monty Python
-> Fawlty Towers "The Germans'
Youtube: "fawlty towers the germans"
hahahahhaaaaaa ooooh nooooo. Open Another Statement of Intent. WRITE! SOMETHING! YOU ARE SPECIAL! YOU ARE UNIQUE! COMMUNICATE! COMMUNICATE!
"I want to get a Masters of Divinity because I love to write. It's easy for me, and I enjoy it. I can write for hours and hours at a time without noticing the outside world at all. In fact, sometimes I get lost in language to the extent that I forget to eat, or cease to notice people around me."
Google:
"do writers really like writing"
"Stephen King: 7 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer"
eat a muffin. make some coffee. stretch.
Blogger: New Post.
"why graduate school"
"WWOOFing in Italy"
"culinary schools"
"massage therapy"
"spas in lexington ky"
open a new word document. (entitled "Another Statement of Intent" in order to distinguish it from documents "Statement of Intent" and "New Statement of Intent") catchy opening statement: "i have been worrying over Truth since...".
Google:
"worrying definition"
"What the Bible Says About Worry"
-> "What the Bible Says about Women in Ministry"
-> Wikipedia: Famous Female Philosophers
-> Simone de Beauvoir
>-existentialism
-> Monty Python
-> Fawlty Towers "The Germans'
Youtube: "fawlty towers the germans"
hahahahhaaaaaa ooooh nooooo. Open Another Statement of Intent. WRITE! SOMETHING! YOU ARE SPECIAL! YOU ARE UNIQUE! COMMUNICATE! COMMUNICATE!
"I want to get a Masters of Divinity because I love to write. It's easy for me, and I enjoy it. I can write for hours and hours at a time without noticing the outside world at all. In fact, sometimes I get lost in language to the extent that I forget to eat, or cease to notice people around me."
Google:
"do writers really like writing"
"Stephen King: 7 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer"
eat a muffin. make some coffee. stretch.
Blogger: New Post.
Monday, October 10, 2011
cheap thrills
so i went to get contacts this morning, and they're all adjusted to my astigmatism, which means that everything is weird. driving was a little wonky. i kept blinking really slowly and moving my head baaaack and fooooward. Things just seemed off.
things got weirder at the used bookstore, because i spent a lot of time thinking that i was in the large print, large bound section, and trying to find the real books that were a normal size. finally i put my hand up to the rows of books and was shocked that my hand was "large print."
i think that the lady behind the counter thought that i wasn't quite myself. wandering through the store, muttering to myself, tipping my head, holding my hand up to books, then pulling it back.... soooo sloooowly....
things got weirder at the used bookstore, because i spent a lot of time thinking that i was in the large print, large bound section, and trying to find the real books that were a normal size. finally i put my hand up to the rows of books and was shocked that my hand was "large print."
i think that the lady behind the counter thought that i wasn't quite myself. wandering through the store, muttering to myself, tipping my head, holding my hand up to books, then pulling it back.... soooo sloooowly....
Monday, October 3, 2011
Flashback: Monastery Week 1
April 2011. The last week of Lent before Holy Week begins.
A monastery in the South of England.
I've been here for a week and will be here for three more.
Today John cornered me after chapel.
“Are you doin’ all right?” I’m not so great at UK accents, but he’s either from Northern England or Scottland (later I’m confirmed that yes, he is from the north of England). “Because ah I keep seein’ you and hopin’ you’re doin’ all right.”
I hope I don’t like lost, confused, and overwhelmed. I am trying exude “peace,” but I guess that I’m not doing so well.
John follows me to the cells, keeping up conversation. The monastery is observing its daily “Greater Silence,” from 5pm at night until 9am tomorrow morning, and I know that I’m supposed to make a graceful and polite escape from any conversation, but it’s nice to hear a voice that isn’t chanting. Honestly, it’s nice to hear my own voice as well. Even in the Lesser Silence, from 9am-5pm, only necessary speaking is permitted.
John has been here since January – a long term visitor like Susan and that “tubby” guy who is identified by everyone, even Brother Peter, by his roundedness. It seemed rude at first, but I think that the nickname stems from simple amazement rather than meanness. Food here is healthy - but scarce.
“How about the food,” John asks, “how about 2 slices of bread for breakfast?” I’m fine with the food, but “there’s a village just 15 minutes away,” John whispers, “over the wire fence in that direction,” gesturing through the woods. I must look shocked, because he reassures me that “we all go out for food, even Susan!” Susan is a lovely middle-aged lady who has been here a year, and Brother Lewis tells me that they have “hopes” for her permanent residency.
“How about these hours!” he presses on. “God, I never get used to these hours! Have you been to vigils yet?” I set my alarm for 4:50 this morning, but shut it off and went back to sleep. “God! It’s not natural! Psalm after Psalm after Psalm! Seven Psalms or more! They say there’s something in the Bible about praying 6 times a day. But I tell you, I look at these old men, standing in the cold, hour after hour – times change!” He won’t stop shaking his head. He’s still whispering.
“If you need anything, you let me know. The password for the internet computer in the library is 'one great tradition.'” I really do look shocked now. “Oh, this whole place is rigged with wireless, too” he assures me. “They’ve got it everywhere. And if you need to get into the library after they lock it,” at night and early morning, “just ask Susan, she’s got a key”.
I feel vaguely like I’m hearing a teenager at a restrictive boarding school share his secrets. I guess if you’re here for six months, you could go stir crazy. Six days in for me, and the spoken word has already turned into a novelty. So why is John here? And for half a year? Questions.
“Are you doin’ all right?” I’m not so great at UK accents, but he’s either from Northern England or Scottland (later I’m confirmed that yes, he is from the north of England). “Because ah I keep seein’ you and hopin’ you’re doin’ all right.”
I hope I don’t like lost, confused, and overwhelmed. I am trying exude “peace,” but I guess that I’m not doing so well.
John follows me to the cells, keeping up conversation. The monastery is observing its daily “Greater Silence,” from 5pm at night until 9am tomorrow morning, and I know that I’m supposed to make a graceful and polite escape from any conversation, but it’s nice to hear a voice that isn’t chanting. Honestly, it’s nice to hear my own voice as well. Even in the Lesser Silence, from 9am-5pm, only necessary speaking is permitted.
John has been here since January – a long term visitor like Susan and that “tubby” guy who is identified by everyone, even Brother Peter, by his roundedness. It seemed rude at first, but I think that the nickname stems from simple amazement rather than meanness. Food here is healthy - but scarce.
“How about the food,” John asks, “how about 2 slices of bread for breakfast?” I’m fine with the food, but “there’s a village just 15 minutes away,” John whispers, “over the wire fence in that direction,” gesturing through the woods. I must look shocked, because he reassures me that “we all go out for food, even Susan!” Susan is a lovely middle-aged lady who has been here a year, and Brother Lewis tells me that they have “hopes” for her permanent residency.
“How about these hours!” he presses on. “God, I never get used to these hours! Have you been to vigils yet?” I set my alarm for 4:50 this morning, but shut it off and went back to sleep. “God! It’s not natural! Psalm after Psalm after Psalm! Seven Psalms or more! They say there’s something in the Bible about praying 6 times a day. But I tell you, I look at these old men, standing in the cold, hour after hour – times change!” He won’t stop shaking his head. He’s still whispering.
“If you need anything, you let me know. The password for the internet computer in the library is 'one great tradition.'” I really do look shocked now. “Oh, this whole place is rigged with wireless, too” he assures me. “They’ve got it everywhere. And if you need to get into the library after they lock it,” at night and early morning, “just ask Susan, she’s got a key”.
I feel vaguely like I’m hearing a teenager at a restrictive boarding school share his secrets. I guess if you’re here for six months, you could go stir crazy. Six days in for me, and the spoken word has already turned into a novelty. So why is John here? And for half a year? Questions.
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