I never know what to expect when my Grandmother pulls out her scrapbook. It is stuffed with news clippings of family members and friends and spans decades. On a recent visit, she reminded me that I became a published news correspondent at the ripe old age of nine. With no further ado, I present, for the first time since it's original publish date, an article I wrote as part of a trio of articles about my school Callaway Elementary. Entitled "Circus," it was published in the Franklin News-Post on October 18, 1985.
Mr. Derek Brown is the third and fourth grade art teacher at Callaway Elementary School. On Friday, September 27, Mr. Brown acted like he was a mime. This means there was no conversation while he acted out situations. He pretended he was stuck behind a wall and then he pretended he rode a horse. This was done with no conversation or props.
Then Mr. Brown gave us paper and he called on students in the class to come and stand a certain way. They were representing animals we might see in a circus. We had to draw them using gesture drawings. Then when he snapped his fingers we added something to our drawings. Some added the three rings you would find in a circus; some added more elephants; or maybe more trapeze acrobats doing stunts on the trapeze. The pictures turned out great.
Our favorite part was when Mr. Brown played a mime. He had music that you might hear at a circus. He was even dressed like a clown. We were kind of sad when this art class was over and Mr. Brown left.
Riveting. Watch out Katie Couric.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Treks In The City
I love the city...any city. Everything about a city makes me feel alive. My senses are assaulted. Even thick fog, which would depress me at home, is beautiful in the city as it rolls down the streets and alleys, enveloping buildings, covering them in moving gray and white clouds.
Part of really seeing and experiencing a city is exploring on foot. There's always a new smell, color or unique "situation" hanging out on a street corner that you'd miss if you were moving quickly. I walk everywhere I can, opting for subways, buses and trains only when I cannot arrive at my destination within a reasonable amount of time(an hour or so isn't unusual for me) and taking cabs only when the other transportation offerings are not an option. This is the case this evening when I hail a cab to drive me from the IO Theater near Wrigley Field, where I witnessed some of the funniest stand up comedy of my life, to my hotel near O'Hare.
The cabbie was black. African. He spoke English with a limited vocabulary and a thick accent that made it difficult for me to understand him unless I paid very close attention. He is working to improve his English skills and practiced by asking me my name, birthday, etc. Kenny - this is his American name - tells me he is 37 years old and has been in America for a year. Like so many others, he came here at the promise of great opportunity and now is working every waking moment. I tell him I'm returning to school to study communications and film. He wants to go to school next year "after my birthday on November 24," he tells me. Kenny says he was a broadcast journalist in Nigeria. I find this oddly coincidental but fitting and I choose to believe him.
He asks me why I'm not married. Not knowing how to explain my newly single status to him, I simply answer that I do not want to be. He is taken aback. In his culture, he explains, marriage is highly regarded and sought after. It is insulting to your family to not marry at your earliest opportunity. He explains to me that marriage is about showing respect to your family, your community and yourself. I ask Kenny why he is not married yet at 37.
He tells me stories of his future wife who is still in Nigeria. He spins tales of life in Africa and war and poverty and beauty. He talks about being an African man in America and not feeling like he is a part of any culture here, white or black. He makes phone calls to his kinfolk and I listen to the beauty of his native tongue. Time passes.
The cab ride should have taken 25 minutes. It is dark and Kenny is lost. I gave him very careful directions in the beginning, but he did not understand me and now I do not know where we are either. He pleads with me to help. I ask for directions several times and then navigate from the backseat. Kenny disregards me and we tunnel deeper into the city and further away from my destination. We drive for more than an hour and finally find a Marriott who will take me via shuttle to my hotel. Kenny does not sense, or maybe just doesn't acknowledge, my frustration. I try to keep it at bay as this ride was slightly amusing and maybe just what I needed on this mild night in Chicago. As I depart the taxi, he hands me a note that reads:
Kenny
773-555-5555
a cab man (Nigerian)
He asks me to call him the next day so he can drive me around. I think I'll pass...my feet are more reliable, thank you very much.
Part of really seeing and experiencing a city is exploring on foot. There's always a new smell, color or unique "situation" hanging out on a street corner that you'd miss if you were moving quickly. I walk everywhere I can, opting for subways, buses and trains only when I cannot arrive at my destination within a reasonable amount of time(an hour or so isn't unusual for me) and taking cabs only when the other transportation offerings are not an option. This is the case this evening when I hail a cab to drive me from the IO Theater near Wrigley Field, where I witnessed some of the funniest stand up comedy of my life, to my hotel near O'Hare.
The cabbie was black. African. He spoke English with a limited vocabulary and a thick accent that made it difficult for me to understand him unless I paid very close attention. He is working to improve his English skills and practiced by asking me my name, birthday, etc. Kenny - this is his American name - tells me he is 37 years old and has been in America for a year. Like so many others, he came here at the promise of great opportunity and now is working every waking moment. I tell him I'm returning to school to study communications and film. He wants to go to school next year "after my birthday on November 24," he tells me. Kenny says he was a broadcast journalist in Nigeria. I find this oddly coincidental but fitting and I choose to believe him.
He asks me why I'm not married. Not knowing how to explain my newly single status to him, I simply answer that I do not want to be. He is taken aback. In his culture, he explains, marriage is highly regarded and sought after. It is insulting to your family to not marry at your earliest opportunity. He explains to me that marriage is about showing respect to your family, your community and yourself. I ask Kenny why he is not married yet at 37.
He tells me stories of his future wife who is still in Nigeria. He spins tales of life in Africa and war and poverty and beauty. He talks about being an African man in America and not feeling like he is a part of any culture here, white or black. He makes phone calls to his kinfolk and I listen to the beauty of his native tongue. Time passes.
The cab ride should have taken 25 minutes. It is dark and Kenny is lost. I gave him very careful directions in the beginning, but he did not understand me and now I do not know where we are either. He pleads with me to help. I ask for directions several times and then navigate from the backseat. Kenny disregards me and we tunnel deeper into the city and further away from my destination. We drive for more than an hour and finally find a Marriott who will take me via shuttle to my hotel. Kenny does not sense, or maybe just doesn't acknowledge, my frustration. I try to keep it at bay as this ride was slightly amusing and maybe just what I needed on this mild night in Chicago. As I depart the taxi, he hands me a note that reads:
Kenny
773-555-5555
a cab man (Nigerian)
He asks me to call him the next day so he can drive me around. I think I'll pass...my feet are more reliable, thank you very much.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
You put your left foot in...
I'm positive that I do not possess words to adequately describe this image. Normally, I would change the names of the innocent, but since there were no innocents involved, I won't. Holly and Walt - my crazy friends who are so ridiculously happy together that it's impossible not to get caught up and surrender yourself to their infectious joy - let me accompany them to the VT v. Florida State game. 50,000 fun stories that could make this blog drag on for days. Crazy tailgating before game. Cherry Coke. Bubble-like apparel to battle the brutal Blacksburg cold. Marching Penguins (slow moving geriatrics). 65,000 person mosh pit. 65,000 person hokie pokie mass. Marching Virginians. Highty Tighties, oh my. Dragging drink boys (not drunk boys!) against traffic during halftime. Abundant touchdowns. Ultimate win. Rushing field. Crazy tailgating after game. Skippage. Official launch of the "Crystalline" years. Old friendships renewed. New friendships begun.Thanks you guys! I love ya!
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
No hablo espanol
40 days. Only 40 days until I fly off into the sunset, headed for parts unknown. Well, that's not entirely true, but it sounds good if not more than a little cliche. I actually have a morning flight, so technically I'll be flying into the sunrise...a much more optimistic direction, I think. And, since my ticket says Guatemala City, "parts unknown" becomes 20 days in Central America.
In anticipation of my trip, I have spent every waking moment of late trying to learn Spanish. Before I go any further, let me officially declare that I am not naive. I completely understand that many folks I encounter will speak English. More realistically, many won't speak English or Spanish as there are 40 different Mayan languages whose usage prevails in the small, rural towns where I will spend most of my time. Even so, I'm using this trip as an opportunity to learn another language and I'll do it if it kills me!
I have used dictionaries and CDs and DVDs and online learning tools...none of which have taught me anything. I failed terribly at making a hotel reservation for my first night in the country, even after employing my Spanish-English dictionary. The simplest of phrases eluded me until I discovered a wonderful podcast called Coffee Break Spanish. It declares to "bring language learning with your latte." Perfect! Kara and Mark are wonderful hosts with thick Scottish accents who patiently teach me and hundreds of other listeners Spanish in 15 minute increments. All is going very well.
Mark asks me how to say "I have two sisters." I can squawk: "Tengo dos hermanas."
Where are you from: De donde eres?
I am hungry: Tengo hambre
Where is the cathedral: Donde esta la catedral?
Is there a bar nearby: Hay un barre cerca de aqui?
I need another beer please: Quisiera una cerveza por favor.
Uno, dos, tres, hola, como estas, hasta luego...and on and on. All useful phrases, which I confidently speak (though I realize my spelling has a long way to go).
I am certain that I have begun the process of mastery...that is until tonight when I visit my favorite sushi restaurant. The chef - who, ironically, is not from Japan but Honduras - puts my knowledge to the test by speaking to me only in Spanish. I fail miserably. While I can generally understand him, answering his questions proves impossible. I totally freeze. I even forget the phrases I've practiced the most: "I'm sorry, I don't understand" and "Please speak more slowly." When the conversation deviates from my comfortable and structured digital lessons my mind goes blank. While I feel very confident belting out Spanish phrases within the safety of my car with Mark and Kara, everything sounds strange when verbalized in a public setting.
I'm making my peace with the fact that the most I'm learning from Coffee Break Spanish is how to speak English with a Scottish accent! While this will be very useful in hiding my status as an American, it's not going to get me very far when asking for a table at a restaurant, trying to find a bank, or bartering in the centro commercial.
40 days. 40 days! Perhaps I need a new plan...at least I'll play a mean game of charades when I return.
In anticipation of my trip, I have spent every waking moment of late trying to learn Spanish. Before I go any further, let me officially declare that I am not naive. I completely understand that many folks I encounter will speak English. More realistically, many won't speak English or Spanish as there are 40 different Mayan languages whose usage prevails in the small, rural towns where I will spend most of my time. Even so, I'm using this trip as an opportunity to learn another language and I'll do it if it kills me!
I have used dictionaries and CDs and DVDs and online learning tools...none of which have taught me anything. I failed terribly at making a hotel reservation for my first night in the country, even after employing my Spanish-English dictionary. The simplest of phrases eluded me until I discovered a wonderful podcast called Coffee Break Spanish. It declares to "bring language learning with your latte." Perfect! Kara and Mark are wonderful hosts with thick Scottish accents who patiently teach me and hundreds of other listeners Spanish in 15 minute increments. All is going very well.
Mark asks me how to say "I have two sisters." I can squawk: "Tengo dos hermanas."
Where are you from: De donde eres?
I am hungry: Tengo hambre
Where is the cathedral: Donde esta la catedral?
Is there a bar nearby: Hay un barre cerca de aqui?
I need another beer please: Quisiera una cerveza por favor.
Uno, dos, tres, hola, como estas, hasta luego...and on and on. All useful phrases, which I confidently speak (though I realize my spelling has a long way to go).
I am certain that I have begun the process of mastery...that is until tonight when I visit my favorite sushi restaurant. The chef - who, ironically, is not from Japan but Honduras - puts my knowledge to the test by speaking to me only in Spanish. I fail miserably. While I can generally understand him, answering his questions proves impossible. I totally freeze. I even forget the phrases I've practiced the most: "I'm sorry, I don't understand" and "Please speak more slowly." When the conversation deviates from my comfortable and structured digital lessons my mind goes blank. While I feel very confident belting out Spanish phrases within the safety of my car with Mark and Kara, everything sounds strange when verbalized in a public setting.
I'm making my peace with the fact that the most I'm learning from Coffee Break Spanish is how to speak English with a Scottish accent! While this will be very useful in hiding my status as an American, it's not going to get me very far when asking for a table at a restaurant, trying to find a bank, or bartering in the centro commercial.
40 days. 40 days! Perhaps I need a new plan...at least I'll play a mean game of charades when I return.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
"When one jumps over the edge...
One is bound to land somewhere."
D.H. Lawrence
These words fill my head these days. While not overly optimistic, it is nice that they have replaced another phrase full of expletives, which has pulsed in my head every waking moment and marched through my dreams at night for the past two weeks since I made the decision to quit my job and return to school.
It's time. I've been postponing it for ages now, but it's finally time. I wasn't quite prepared to quit my very stable, well paying job that I love, but ultimately it was the right decision. No matter that the idea of not having a full-time job, for the first time since I was 16, terrifies me! Thankfully, feelings of fear and uncertainty are offset by the excitement and anticipation of taking on a new challenge.
This 30th year of mine has been all about change, personal redefinition and flying by the seat of my pants. It's appropriate, I think, to end this year by making a huge leap...I hope the landing is gentle.
D.H. Lawrence
These words fill my head these days. While not overly optimistic, it is nice that they have replaced another phrase full of expletives, which has pulsed in my head every waking moment and marched through my dreams at night for the past two weeks since I made the decision to quit my job and return to school.
It's time. I've been postponing it for ages now, but it's finally time. I wasn't quite prepared to quit my very stable, well paying job that I love, but ultimately it was the right decision. No matter that the idea of not having a full-time job, for the first time since I was 16, terrifies me! Thankfully, feelings of fear and uncertainty are offset by the excitement and anticipation of taking on a new challenge.
This 30th year of mine has been all about change, personal redefinition and flying by the seat of my pants. It's appropriate, I think, to end this year by making a huge leap...I hope the landing is gentle.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Feeding my need for speed
I am utterly exhausted. This is a bone deep kind of tired. It's the kind of tired that is the mark of a prodigious weekend. I had every intention of coming home and crashing hard for the night, but after a shower and a dinner of fried rice, I find myself firmly planted on my couch with my computer, a Harp lager and the Steelers v Broncos game. My mind still hasn't figured out that the weekend is over.Twice each year, the population of my sleepy little town in Southwest Virginia doubles for 48-72 hours. How exactly does that work? Simple. The NASCAR circus comes to town. My job requires me to attend the race and so this weekend I was a special guest, albeit a hardworking one, of the Martinsville Speedway.
I am not a NASCAR fan. While this is not my first race, I don't know the names of the team owners or their sponsors or the entire history of racing as many fans do. (Thankfully, the drivers have their names embroidered on their belts, so if you're comfortable staring really hard at their midsections, you can figure out who they are.) I don't even have a favorite driver. Well, I didn't...
So, I spent the last 3 days wandering around a half mile paper clip in wonderment. My pass allowed me to access the pits, garage areas, media centers and suites. It's a buffet for all the senses - watching drivers and crews prepare for race day; rubbing elbows with the Mooresville pit box babes, with their identical hair, nose, teeth, lips and breasts; smelling burning oil/gas, grilled chicken and the world famous Mart-dog; listening to the air tools at work; testosterone. I even got to shake a driver's hand just before he took to the track. Never mind that he crashed and burned 15 laps later.
**writer's break for food poisoning. Damn fried rice. TMI?**
I imagine a weekend with this kind of behind-the-scenes access could turn anyone into a fan, if even just for a few days. I was standing 5 feet from the cars when Jared of Subway said "Gentleman start your engines." 65,000 people cheered from the stands as drivers were announced and I stood on the start/finish line. Even better than being on the track is retiring to an air conditioned suite stocked with all the bean dip you can eat and beer from around the world for the duration of the race.
A few other random notes from the weekend:
- Watch out for the drips of, ummm, beer while walking under the grandstands
- Award for biggest cahones - Reed Sorenson in the pepto bismol pink Target car
- Award for worst marketing campaign - Combos and the man-mom car (truly scary!)
For photos, click here and here.
Friday, October 12, 2007
No wonder I'm dizzy. Everything's spinning.
OK, I know I began this blog under the guise of a wandering dot, so it's reasonable for you to expect great stories of travel. The truth is I'm not doing much actual wandering these days. Sure, I've had some great adventures this year, but there's no fun for you in my rehashing those trips now. I do have several exciting trips planned in the near future, but for the moment my mind is all that can wander to Guatemala and Spain. In the meantime, I'm finding great adventure just wandering around my existing space.Last night, I attended my first contradance in the town of Floyd, Virginia. If you Google Floyd (and you should, it's worth reading about), you'll find that the town itself has less than 500 residents. Don't let its size fool you. Located just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, this burg is a growing haven for artists, writers and musicians and culture oozes from its pores.
The Sun Music Hall's website promised a lesson for first-timers before the dance began, so my friend Sandra and I arrived in time for instruction. Prior to two days ago, I'd never even heard of contradance, and so went forth with no expectations. At 7:45, our "caller," Adina stepped to the center of the room and began our lesson. She walked us through a series of steps and threw lots of technical jargon our way such as partner, neighbor, courtesy turn, circle, allemande, cross over, right hand through, spin, and on and on and on.
After 10 minutes, it was announced that we had all the knowledge necessary to begin dancing. I was dubious. So, what is contradancing? It's nearly impossible to describe - you just have to try it. To say there's a lot of spinning is an understatement. Adina warned us about getting dizzy. Some dancers find Dramamine helpful, she announces.
WHOA! Wait just a minute. Everyone who has ever danced with me will attest that I am a hopelessly terrible dancer! I have no rhythm and I do not "follow." Shocking, I know. So, I did not just sign up for an evening of being spun all over the dance floor, did I? Not to mention having to memorize a series of intricate steps that should be performed in the right order to avoid crashing into others who are in the "line of indefinite length." Talk about things that scare me!
Our lesson concluded after a few generalities from Adina:
- Contradancing is a team sport, so don't expect to dance with the one who brung ya all night.
- Whether you're a lady or a gent, remember that the lady is always right. (I knew this, but it takes on a different meaning when you're in mid swing and can't remember where to stop!)
- Try it...you'll like it. (Famous last words...)
The more I danced, the more I amazed myself. I was getting it! I was kind of...good! As the evening progressed, my partners began adding their own flair to the dances, spinning me and tossing me where they desired and, by the end, I was dizzy again from all the spinning.
In three hours of contradancing, I never sat out a song, nor did I stop laughing. I think I danced with everyone in the hall - some really good, some first-timers like me. I participated in and caused a few train wrecks with my novice. While my body is protesting today, last night I only felt exhilarated! I am hooked on this wondrous form of English folk dancing.
The next time you find yourself in Floyd on the 2nd Saturday night of the month, drop in and have a tofu chimichanga at OddFellas and then join me at the Sun Music Hall. I'll be there...spinning!
"And if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with, love the one you're with." Thank you Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young and AM for this valuable lesson!
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