Ah! Christmas vacation! Snow, rest, lights, fire, hot cocoa, walks, cookies, books---all the things that make being away from the daily duties of teaching worth while.
On Christmas Eve I walked the dogs up the hill after dinner as the flakes fell on as silent o' night as I can remember. Lights glowed in the neighbors' warm houses as they celebrated their various seasonal rituals and traditions. In the quietude it was easy to seize the moment for its beauty, unlike those precious ones lost in the clatter of dishes and crackle of paper.
As I returned home, down the hill, our house glowed with warmth too.
On Christmas Day I walked the dogs again, this time in the other direction. I noticed that the snow sparkled, and I tried to think of a simile to describe it without using a cliche. So, that ruled out diamonds, frosting, sugar, pieces of glass, etc., even though they were apt.
While pondering, I decided to make a snow angel, so I put down the leashes and turned my back to the snow bank and sat, then lay down. Angel, the older dog, took it all in stride, but Brady cocked his head and looked at me like he was the smart one.
I began to move the snow with my arms and legs to form arcs for my "dress" and "wings." Only, I noticed I couldn't quite get my arms above my head like I remembered doing in the past. I tried harder, but it pained my shoulders.
My angel as fully formed as I could manage, I attempted to stand up. I didn't want to put my hands down to ruin the outline of my creation---but I couldn't get up.
Brady pranced around, laughing. He trotted over to help, and I said, "No, You'll ruin the angel."
It was no use, though. Wiggle and grunt though I might, I had no choice but to put my hands down in the snow to hoist myself, which left two deep impressions on the side of my perfect angel and a sprinkle of paw prints to boot.
I thought about trying another one to improve my technique, but the dogs were impatient. The important thing is I made the angel, and it was still pretty, though imperfect, there in the snow bank that looked like a frosted, sugary cake, decorated with a sort of angel-like impression.
When I got home, I told my husband the story and said my wing span isn't what it used to be.
He laughed and said, "That's because our body span is more than it used to be.
It was funny, only because he said "our."
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
To Fiction or Non?
Writing fiction is fun. It's like playing God to a world; in fact, one creates a world and the characters, the setting, the plot. It's heady stuff. It's also hard to do well.
I also enjoy writing nonfiction, though, then one is limited to the facts, or at least your version of the facts. Really, there is no such thing as nonfiction. Everything written is someone's rendition of something that really happened. Even biographies tell only the writer's side, and if that writer did interviews to give a more balanced approach, it helps, but it still is limited in perspective.
Maybe fiction is more honest and true than nonfiction, for at least the author does not claim it to be real and factual. It's been shown that even studies and statistics are skewed, depending on the survey questions, the demographics of those surveyed, and the prejudices (either outward or subliminal) of the researcher.
That being said, I do like reading and writing "nonfiction," but I always keep in mind that it is one author's perspective. Both fiction and nonfiction have a basis of facts, or else we wouldn't be able to relate to it at all. Even Star Wars has characters we can relate to. We all know a Han Solo or a Luke Sky Walker. Right, Mr. Ludlum?
What do you think? Fiction or non?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
NoNames Ramble
The piles of papers I have to correct has driven me to blog. Yeah, anything to avoid them. I figure the stack will take me a total of 24 hrs. to grade, so there's no way I'm getting them done today. Why even try?
Went to see a movie last night at the Avalon, the local movie hub in downtown P'ville. They're hosting the Driftless Film Festival in the area, and the feature film I saw was called "NoNames." It was pretty interesting, really, but certainly not in an uplifting way. A group of townies in central Wisconsin spend their days getting drunk and getting high as a way to escape the town without leaving it. All seem to have no end of problems and no jobs to speak of, so they bond together in their hopelessness.
Every small town seems to have these characters who graduate from high school to the locar bars. Alcohol must make life seem challenging, or why would they keep going to the same establishment, paying good money to take part in the same stupid banter and suffering the same sickening hangover?
Darren Borrows (Ed Chigliak) of "Northern Exposure" fame portrays a local deputy in the flim who tries to talk some sense into the main character, Kevin, who insists on screwing up his life, over and over again, in a cycle of stupidity. Baxter, Wisconsin is a disgusting, toilet of a town, or at least that's the side of it that we're privvy to.
I couldn't help but compare it to "Northern Exposure's" Sicily, Alaska, where life in a small rural town was portrayed at quaint, serene, and fun, though immensely quirky. The viewer would love to be a part of the simple life in Sicily, whereas life in Baxter is seen as a prison sentence and the dwellers dopes for staying there.
Small towns can be OK, I think. It all depends on how you spend your spare time and brain cells. No different than in a city, really. Cities have bleak, seamy sides, too: homeless, jobless people, crime, gangs, etc.
The film had great music; lots of accoustic guitar and folksy songs. I liked that much better than the country, Farm and Fleet musak they could have chosen for realism. The soundtrack gave the film some flavor, in a good way.
Went to see a movie last night at the Avalon, the local movie hub in downtown P'ville. They're hosting the Driftless Film Festival in the area, and the feature film I saw was called "NoNames." It was pretty interesting, really, but certainly not in an uplifting way. A group of townies in central Wisconsin spend their days getting drunk and getting high as a way to escape the town without leaving it. All seem to have no end of problems and no jobs to speak of, so they bond together in their hopelessness.
Every small town seems to have these characters who graduate from high school to the locar bars. Alcohol must make life seem challenging, or why would they keep going to the same establishment, paying good money to take part in the same stupid banter and suffering the same sickening hangover?
Darren Borrows (Ed Chigliak) of "Northern Exposure" fame portrays a local deputy in the flim who tries to talk some sense into the main character, Kevin, who insists on screwing up his life, over and over again, in a cycle of stupidity. Baxter, Wisconsin is a disgusting, toilet of a town, or at least that's the side of it that we're privvy to.
I couldn't help but compare it to "Northern Exposure's" Sicily, Alaska, where life in a small rural town was portrayed at quaint, serene, and fun, though immensely quirky. The viewer would love to be a part of the simple life in Sicily, whereas life in Baxter is seen as a prison sentence and the dwellers dopes for staying there.
Small towns can be OK, I think. It all depends on how you spend your spare time and brain cells. No different than in a city, really. Cities have bleak, seamy sides, too: homeless, jobless people, crime, gangs, etc.
The film had great music; lots of accoustic guitar and folksy songs. I liked that much better than the country, Farm and Fleet musak they could have chosen for realism. The soundtrack gave the film some flavor, in a good way.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
All the World's a Stage
Love the suggestion from Shakespeare for my Elvis story. Thanks.
Speaking of "All the world's a stage," I bussed on up to Spring Green to the American Players Theater with 50 or so high schoolers and Mrs. C last Friday to see Shakespeare's hillarious, As You Like It.
That "stage" quote is from that play, and oh, how true it is.
'Twas a glorious production, with costumes and music from the '3os and even a performance from Mother Nature mid-show. In the scene where Ganamede is speaking to her cousin about Orlando's love notes she's found dispersed throughout the forest, the wind blew one of the notes from its nail and carried it back and forth, dancing in front of the characters for about 20 seconds or so. She played her part beautifully.
The thing I like most about Shakespeare is the humor, and the APT players know how to ham it up to the hilt. Audrey and Touchstone stole the show with their innuendo and slapstick antics. The crowd of students in the audience seemed to take it in with relish.
And, our PHS seniors conducted themselves like seniors; how awesome!Wait, is Logan a senior? Well, almost all were a delight to chaperone.
About 14 years ago I chaperoned a group of sophomores to see As You Like It. I remember it distinctly. The actress who played Audrey had on a pretty revealing costume, and a student name Logan was rather smitten with her. When we returned from the play and I asked the students how they liked As You Like It, Logan said, "I liked Audrey."
"She was a good actress," I said.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But she sure had on a pretty dress."
Of course, the class laughed.
Yes, all the world's a stage, and that includes the classroom.
Speaking of "All the world's a stage," I bussed on up to Spring Green to the American Players Theater with 50 or so high schoolers and Mrs. C last Friday to see Shakespeare's hillarious, As You Like It.
That "stage" quote is from that play, and oh, how true it is.
'Twas a glorious production, with costumes and music from the '3os and even a performance from Mother Nature mid-show. In the scene where Ganamede is speaking to her cousin about Orlando's love notes she's found dispersed throughout the forest, the wind blew one of the notes from its nail and carried it back and forth, dancing in front of the characters for about 20 seconds or so. She played her part beautifully.
The thing I like most about Shakespeare is the humor, and the APT players know how to ham it up to the hilt. Audrey and Touchstone stole the show with their innuendo and slapstick antics. The crowd of students in the audience seemed to take it in with relish.
And, our PHS seniors conducted themselves like seniors; how awesome!Wait, is Logan a senior? Well, almost all were a delight to chaperone.
About 14 years ago I chaperoned a group of sophomores to see As You Like It. I remember it distinctly. The actress who played Audrey had on a pretty revealing costume, and a student name Logan was rather smitten with her. When we returned from the play and I asked the students how they liked As You Like It, Logan said, "I liked Audrey."
"She was a good actress," I said.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But she sure had on a pretty dress."
Of course, the class laughed.
Yes, all the world's a stage, and that includes the classroom.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Becoming the King
Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. Somehow that teaching school thing gets in the way of my writing, but---it also gives me stuff to write about.
Not today, though.
Today, I want to relate an experience I had last weekend at Platteville's Dairy Days. My cousin Peggy invited me to go see Tony Rocker, an Elvis impersonator performing in a tent on the main stage, actually, the only stage. He was asked back by popular demand, as everyone loved him when he was here last year.
I sat in the front row with Peggy and her friends, visiting until the show started. Tony's back-up band played tunes from the 60s and 70s to get us going, and they did. They're a rockin' bunch. They put out every thing they had into a myriad of standards, like Wipeout, Sweet Caroline and Daydream Believer. Very talented musicians. It would have been enough just to listen to them.
Then, the lights dimmed, the drums rolled, and Elvis, aka, Tony, was escorted to the stage sporting the black leather and chains of the tough Elvis. And, he WAS Elvis. He owned every little facial tic, from the sneer to the sexy smile, and every sexy move, from the gyrating hips to the perfectly timed karate chops. He sang ballads and rock, and walked through the audience distributing handshakes, beads and sashes, and he never left his character. Never.
In the second set Tony came out in a replica of Elvis' famous all-white, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. He rocked some more and his moves got increasingly harder, including several pantsplitting, leg-stretching moves to the floor. He was sweating, big time, even though the tent had open sides and the night was cool. He was workin' it, and the crowd loved it, especially a drunk lady who danced around in front and almost fell into the audience.
I saw Elvis at the Colliseum in Madison in June of '74, and he died in August that same year. The person I saw was a rather large blob trying to move around, but with little success. He began songs; stopped the band; and tried again. I think he may have sung one song all the way through without interruption. But, the crowd cheered and loved him just the same, because---well, he was Elvis. Ironically, he died as a result of the people who loved him. He was a victim of his success and lost himself in the bargain, or the fame, somewhere along the line.
Most of us spend our lives trying to "find ourselves" and our "comfort zones." Last weekend I saw someone who spends his life trying to be the best he can at being someone else. And, it was a bit eerie how good he was at it, too. He was a better Elvis than the real Elvis I saw.
Actors pretend to be other people, too, but they have different roles. Tony's got one, and he portrays it over and over to crowds who love it. It would be hard not to lose yourself in the persona, wouldn't it? There's a short story here somewhere; I know it. I'll call it "Totally Elvis" or maybe "Resurrecting the King" or "Lost in a Game." Let me know what you think.
Not today, though.
Today, I want to relate an experience I had last weekend at Platteville's Dairy Days. My cousin Peggy invited me to go see Tony Rocker, an Elvis impersonator performing in a tent on the main stage, actually, the only stage. He was asked back by popular demand, as everyone loved him when he was here last year.
I sat in the front row with Peggy and her friends, visiting until the show started. Tony's back-up band played tunes from the 60s and 70s to get us going, and they did. They're a rockin' bunch. They put out every thing they had into a myriad of standards, like Wipeout, Sweet Caroline and Daydream Believer. Very talented musicians. It would have been enough just to listen to them.
Then, the lights dimmed, the drums rolled, and Elvis, aka, Tony, was escorted to the stage sporting the black leather and chains of the tough Elvis. And, he WAS Elvis. He owned every little facial tic, from the sneer to the sexy smile, and every sexy move, from the gyrating hips to the perfectly timed karate chops. He sang ballads and rock, and walked through the audience distributing handshakes, beads and sashes, and he never left his character. Never.
In the second set Tony came out in a replica of Elvis' famous all-white, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. He rocked some more and his moves got increasingly harder, including several pantsplitting, leg-stretching moves to the floor. He was sweating, big time, even though the tent had open sides and the night was cool. He was workin' it, and the crowd loved it, especially a drunk lady who danced around in front and almost fell into the audience.
I saw Elvis at the Colliseum in Madison in June of '74, and he died in August that same year. The person I saw was a rather large blob trying to move around, but with little success. He began songs; stopped the band; and tried again. I think he may have sung one song all the way through without interruption. But, the crowd cheered and loved him just the same, because---well, he was Elvis. Ironically, he died as a result of the people who loved him. He was a victim of his success and lost himself in the bargain, or the fame, somewhere along the line.
Most of us spend our lives trying to "find ourselves" and our "comfort zones." Last weekend I saw someone who spends his life trying to be the best he can at being someone else. And, it was a bit eerie how good he was at it, too. He was a better Elvis than the real Elvis I saw.
Actors pretend to be other people, too, but they have different roles. Tony's got one, and he portrays it over and over to crowds who love it. It would be hard not to lose yourself in the persona, wouldn't it? There's a short story here somewhere; I know it. I'll call it "Totally Elvis" or maybe "Resurrecting the King" or "Lost in a Game." Let me know what you think.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Ed's Cafe
On Sunday mornings Ed's Cafe, known locally as "the truck stop," serves freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth, big, honkin' cinnamon rolls. One can either order caramel pecan or vanilla frosted---if there are any left to be had.
My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.
The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.
You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.
It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."
One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.
Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.
We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.
I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."
My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.
The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.
You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.
It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."
One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.
Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.
We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.
I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."
Friday, August 20, 2010
Shoo!
For a few days the humidity cleared and we slept with the windows and patio doors open. We were serenaded by the frogs croaking rhythmically in the trees, while the cicadas sang the lullaby. An easy breeze played with the curtains, and it was almost like camping, maybe too much so.
At 2:00 a.m. I was awakened by a noise out on the deck. I listened, still as could be, and sure enough there it was again. Last summer there were a number of break-ins by someone who entered homes in the early morning in search of purses, cameras and easy-to-carry valuables lying around. Some friends of ours awakened in time to frighten her away and warned us to be vigilant and keep doors locked.
I got up, and by that time the dog was barking wildly and trying to jump through the screen door. I flipped the outside light on. And, there they were, the little rascals: one on my lounge chair, one tightrope walking on the rail of the deck, and the other inspecting the gas grill.
There was a party on our deck, and the baby raccoons were having a good 'ol time.
I watched as they gathered at the grill, for they smelled food, or what was left of it. One crawled on top and was trying to open the lid, while the others inspected the bottom and licked the grease from the deck, the bottom of the grill, as well as the propane tank.
Okay, they were cute, but enough fun for one night; it's time to go back to bed. I grabbed the broom and shooed them. They sat there and looked at me until I began to wave the broom about. They slowly walked away and then turned to watch me like I was their entertainment, so I put the broom down and slid it across the deck at their feet, and they took off running down the steps.
Hmpf. Got rid of you, you little stinkers!
I went back to bed, but not two minutes later I heard a tapping sound, over and over. What were they up to now? I flipped the light on again, and there they were playing with the broom, hitting it with their paws and watching it rock back and forth as it hung off the edge of the deck. Then, they went back to the grill to try to figure out how to get inside to scavenge the bits of food they knew were hidden in there.
Yes, they were adorable, waddling around, chattering at each other, like cartoon characters or something: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Moe, Larry and Curly or the Three Musketeers. But, enough is enough. I've got to get some sleep.
How do I get rid of the scamps, though? They didn't really seem to afraid of me or my broom, and I didn't want to sic the dogs on them for fear of an all out battle of bites and scratches. I didn't have a BB-gun and probably wouldn't use it if I did.
I went to the sink and filled a big cup with water and ventured onto the deck. All three of them sat by the grill and looked up at me with shining mischievious eyes, like, "What ya gonna do now, sucka?" I was about six feet away, and I threw the water over them and they high-tailed it outta there and never came back.
My husband and daughter slept through the whole thing. When I told them about our early morning visitors, they thought I'd been dreaming---until I showed them the evidence. All the little pawprints had dried on the deck and left a trail from the grill and down the steps.
At 2:00 a.m. I was awakened by a noise out on the deck. I listened, still as could be, and sure enough there it was again. Last summer there were a number of break-ins by someone who entered homes in the early morning in search of purses, cameras and easy-to-carry valuables lying around. Some friends of ours awakened in time to frighten her away and warned us to be vigilant and keep doors locked.
I got up, and by that time the dog was barking wildly and trying to jump through the screen door. I flipped the outside light on. And, there they were, the little rascals: one on my lounge chair, one tightrope walking on the rail of the deck, and the other inspecting the gas grill.
There was a party on our deck, and the baby raccoons were having a good 'ol time.
I watched as they gathered at the grill, for they smelled food, or what was left of it. One crawled on top and was trying to open the lid, while the others inspected the bottom and licked the grease from the deck, the bottom of the grill, as well as the propane tank.
Okay, they were cute, but enough fun for one night; it's time to go back to bed. I grabbed the broom and shooed them. They sat there and looked at me until I began to wave the broom about. They slowly walked away and then turned to watch me like I was their entertainment, so I put the broom down and slid it across the deck at their feet, and they took off running down the steps.
Hmpf. Got rid of you, you little stinkers!
I went back to bed, but not two minutes later I heard a tapping sound, over and over. What were they up to now? I flipped the light on again, and there they were playing with the broom, hitting it with their paws and watching it rock back and forth as it hung off the edge of the deck. Then, they went back to the grill to try to figure out how to get inside to scavenge the bits of food they knew were hidden in there.
Yes, they were adorable, waddling around, chattering at each other, like cartoon characters or something: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Moe, Larry and Curly or the Three Musketeers. But, enough is enough. I've got to get some sleep.
How do I get rid of the scamps, though? They didn't really seem to afraid of me or my broom, and I didn't want to sic the dogs on them for fear of an all out battle of bites and scratches. I didn't have a BB-gun and probably wouldn't use it if I did.
I went to the sink and filled a big cup with water and ventured onto the deck. All three of them sat by the grill and looked up at me with shining mischievious eyes, like, "What ya gonna do now, sucka?" I was about six feet away, and I threw the water over them and they high-tailed it outta there and never came back.
My husband and daughter slept through the whole thing. When I told them about our early morning visitors, they thought I'd been dreaming---until I showed them the evidence. All the little pawprints had dried on the deck and left a trail from the grill and down the steps.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)