fun in threes, sometimes fours
Who would have thought it was possible for a little, sweet, burpy seven-month-old to sleep a full twelve hours, enabling parents to get work done and get eight hours’ sleep?
Who would have imagined that a body used to significantly less sleep can sleep a full eight hours without the whole system going haywire?
Who would have thought it would only happen one night?
As of Thursday afternoon, K and I are homeowners.
And it was surprisingly easy. We’d heard so many horror stories about people buying houses — troubles with financing, troubles with closing, troubles with the realtor, troubles with everything. We literally had no issues at all. We found the house, made an offer, waited for the counter offer, accepted the counter offer, set a date for closing, then closed the house.
I suppose it helped that the owner now lives in Nashville and was simply interested in getting rid of the house and not terribly worried about how much money he was making. He was just losing money, I guess, paying double mortgages.
So now we’re slowly moving in, and the real work begins.
Last year: Landis, Ulrich, Basso.
This year: Vinokourov, Moreni, and Rassmussen.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch the Tour again. What’s the point? It’s no longer a contest of who has the most endurance, who trained the most, who has the most — dare I use THE sports cliche? — heart.
It’s who can best hide his doping.
Anyone who wins a stage, a title, the Tour itself will now be immediately suspect.
When the Girl is being put to sleep, she sometimes gets angry. Scratch that -- furious. She can howl and scream and whimper endlessly when I'm the one trying to put her to sleep instead of K.
I usually just wait her out. She'll literally scream and push and wiggle and cry until she literally passes out. While she's doing this, I simply walk around the apartment, holding her close, and whispering sweetly (or as sweetly as I can manage while every last nerve in my body is being assailed simultaneously). There comes a time when she's crying, then whimpering, then crying, then tumbling quietly toward sleep -- until something disturbs her and reminds her, "Oh, yes, I am indeed irritated."
That's when toys can become landmines.
There are two beeping, flashing, musical toys that are particularly deadly. In one of them (a caterpillar that plays about four songs and flashes lights where one wouldn't think caterpillars would have lights) has expired: the batteries are dead, and gosh darn it, I just can't seem to remember to replace them. Touch it and it begins a loud, loud, loud symphony.
The porcupine is not much better. Give it a kick (as I did last night) and it begins talking to you. Nothing too intelligent, but you wouldn't expect physics from a porcupine.
Last night, I kicked it dead center. I'm not sure which woke L: my sudden, frustrated gasp, or the porcupine.
In Poland, the Catholic Church is very much against Harry Potter -- sort of like religious conservatives here.
Why?
We all know the standard reasons: wizards and sorcery are simply forbidden in the Bible. It's that simple.
Yet K pointed out the "real" reason Potter worries the Polish church. I read the BBC News article opening to her:
The seventh and final Harry Potter book has broken sales records on both sides of the Atlantic, selling 11 million copies in its first 24 hours.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows sold 2.7 million copies in the UK and 8.3 million in the US. (BBC)
She responded, "See, that's why the Polish church is so scared of Harry Potter. That's real power."
Standing in line at the local supermarket the other night, I noticed on the cover of Cosmopolitan…
My father used to joke when he traveled occasionally on business that US Airways’ name is missing a few letters to make it more accurate. I’m inclined to agree.
We took K’s mother, J, to the airport Thursday afternoon, leaving here at about 2:00 pm. She finally arrived in Poland Saturday at about 4:00 am, our time. And why?
Simple — US Air has both the competency and the professionalism of a wart.
Because of “heavy air traffic,” J’s flight from Charlotte left more than an hour late. K was with J at the gate, and K was asking what will happen if J misses the flight. US Air said that they would not take responsibility for the cost of getting J a hotel room in the eventuality that she missed her flight.
On the flight here, US Air lost both of J’s pieces of luggage. J landed in Chicago and then flew to Charlotte — but her luggage took a vacation somewhere else.
More accurately, the US Air representative could have said, “We don’t take responsibility for our customers. Period.” That was the reality of the situation, but we didn’t know that then.
K and I drive home, wondering if J got on board and whether everything was okay. Just as we were parking, the phone rings. It was J. She’d missed her flight and had no idea what to do. She was hysterical, literally. After all, it was almost twelve. The airport was virtually empty. There was no one at all from LOT, the Polish national carrier. As previously arranged, someone from US Air had led her to the next gate, but that was it. She was left stranded, not knowing what to do and unable to communicate with anyone. Finally, someone at the baggage claim area helped her get in touch with us, and all I heard from K was, “Mother, please calm down. Please. I can’t understand what you’re saying when you’re crying like that.”
Eventually, I got on the phone with US Air and had them re-book a ticket to Poland, but it was to be twenty-four hours after her originally scheduled departure time. Or at least that’s what the bloke at US Air told me.
Was there an offer at this point to arrange for a hotel for this poor woman stuck in the middle if an airport? No.
The difference between American flight crews and German flight crews.
While waiting for the first flight, K and J had the chance to observe several flight crews walking to their planes. Slowly, jackets unbuttoned, relaxed. In Germany, K watched a Lufthansa flight crew: everyone in perfectly pressed, buttoned uniforms, walking quick-step in a single-file line to their plane. “It was like they were in the army!” J laughed.
I spoke with Mark — the gentleman at baggage claim helping J — and he helped write a note for J explaining in English what her situation was so that she could go to the ticket counter when it opened and have her ticket reissued. He agreed to take care of her in the lost-baggage section, and even asked us what kind of coffee she preferred. If I were there, I’d have bought it a beer. Or a whole case.
We left it at that.
Friday, J spent the day in the airport. It turned out that Mark had taken the initiative to hunt down someone in the airport who could speak Polish, and this woman helped J through the rest of the day after Mark had left work. More — Mark had taken J to the ticket counter and helped her get her ticket reissued, and showed her where she’d have to go afterwards.
But it turned out that the ticket was not for a flight that left 11 pm Friday. It was for a flight that left 11 pm Saturday. So the guy who arranged the ticket for us, knowing that it’s for a woman who doesn’t speak English, arranged a flight 48 hours later and didn’t bother even to ask what this woman would do during said 48 hours.
Fortunately, the mystery Polish woman — also an employee of the airport — got better arrangements for J: a Lufthansa flight that left 30 hours earlier.
But that was just the beginning of J’s adventures.
Saturday morning, we learned that the Lufthansa flight was also late, and she missed her connecting flight in Frankfurt. But here German efficiency showed itself to be better than American “customer service.” Knowing that the flight would be late, Lufthansa had checked the passenger manifest, determined who would miss which flight, and re-booked those individuals. When J got off the plane, someone was waiting with a new ticket and guided her directly to the gate.
For those who might comment, “If that were me, letters would be written and calls would be made,” don’t worry — it’s in the works.
It seems to me that this how “civilized”carriers treat their customers. It seems to me that modern carriers will realize that, no matter what the cause of the delay, it is their responsibility to take care of passengers. It seems to me that passengers who arrange for special assistance — as we had done for J — should get that assistance as opposed to being dumped in the middle of an airport in the middle of the night. It seems to me that if a carrier wants to keep someone as a customer, it wouldn’t treat that customer to the same kind of service it provides said customer’s luggage.
And it seems to me that US Air’s price will have to be significantly lower than any other airline’s for me to consider using them.
Returning to the story of our Gatlinburg adventure…
After we had some aquatic fun and the rain had stopped, K and I decided it was time to introduce J to the all American invention of mini-golf.
As when I taught Polish students how to play baseball, I was shocked at all the little nuances of a putting swing that I did without thinking — and I don’t golf, to speak of.
Rules of mini-golf, in other words.
For instance, never raise the club head above your knees — it will result in a swing instead of a put. This is almost always bad, but particularly so if there’s a rock in front of you and a young girl behind.
It’s entirely possible — however unlikely it seems — that the golf ball will strike the rock and sail back toward the young girl’s head. One would think that after this, said young girl would stay far away from axe-wielding grandmother, but youth has its own recklessness.
A few more pictures in the Gatlinburg photo set.
We just got Wynton Marsalis’ latest album, From the Plantation to the Penitentiary (AMG). It features relative newcomer Jennifer Sanon on vocals, and we’re both very pleased with our choice.
I listened to it four times night before last, and probably as many last night. It simply hasn’t left our CD player since we got it Monday.
With this album, in some ways it seems to be more about the lyrics than the music. Matt Collar, for the AMG review, wrote,
Long an outspoken figure in the jazz world and a lightning rod for debate over what constitutes the so called “jazz tradition,” Marsalis is less concerned about the direction of jazz music here and more about the direction of American society.
It is true that, lyrically, this is a very political album, but the thing about Marsalis is that he’s such an accomplished musician that he doesn’t have to be concerned about much of anything for the music to come out sparkling. It might not be a musically revolutionary album, but it is an intensely listenable collection, and I will certainly be returning to it often in the near (and far) future.
One of the problems of teaching to No Child Left Behind standards is the risk of teachers becoming nothing more than their students’ test scores.
Via Eduwonk.com I found one such teacher’s story:
I teach in an inner city school where inequity is apparent. The neighborhood has a high poverty level. Violence and poor housing conditions tuck my students in at night!
Underemployment, unemployment, lack of health insurance is the norm. It has only been of late that a “real” grocery store was available for residents to purchase fresh foods.
We are locked into teaching reading practices that are driven by federal government’s bad research. I witness a lack of all that made school a joy for my students. Literally the things that helped to build community and self-respect and self-esteem for children have disappeared. In their place is rigid schedules and long periods of disjointed phonics, and disjointed language practices.
One of the reasons many teachers are not fans of NCLB is that it’s a one-size-fits-all solution. That “one-size” is often, as this teacher comments, “disjointed.”
This teacher writes of her students’ lack of satisfactory achievement according to the NCLB-mandated state testing.
My Unsatisfactory “grade” was followed by the comment:”This teacher�s students made minimal growth in her classroom this year.”
Most of my children are reading on or above grade level. The amount of “progress/growth” made this year by most of my children was no where near minimal.
I asked my principal if she believed that statement that appeared on my evaluation. She said “Yes, I do, based on your DIBELS scores!”
Her statement hurt me because I know the amount of work I did this year with my precious students. The amount of growth the children had in all areas was in no way “minimal.” I mentioned that the reading levels of some of my first-graders were equal to the end of second grade. She said the district didn�t recognize non-standardized test scores. (susanohanian.org)
Having worked with at-risk kids, I can understand (to a degree) what this teacher is going through.
Such “teaching” turns both students and teachers into little more than cogs in some great bureaucratic machinery. No one is working toward “learning” in any real sense here, and as far as teaching critical thinking, it’s probably non-existent.
Very often, kids coming from such backgrounds need so much more than simple reading and writing instruction. They step into school with huge disadvantages to begin with, and to some degree, reading and writing alone will not help them. They need work with social skills and an understanding of the social framework that exists outside the inner city.
This is not to say that I am advocating a sixties-style “go where the students take us” type of teaching, and I am not suggesting that all standards are a bad thing. However, NCLB’s cookie-cutter approach seems to do little for many students and teachers.
Yesterday, during the late afternoon/early evening, I uploaded about 340 pictures to Flickr. It’s all part of a new plan to start using Flickr more and our own computer’s hard drive less. We have a 250 gb hard drive, and because of pictures and now films, we’re about full.
Most of the pics are from Poland, and so they’re at least two to four years old.
Recently I found this report:
Iranian intelligence operatives recently detained over a dozen squirrels found within the nation’s borders, claiming the rodents were serving as spies for Western powers determined to undermine the Islamic Republic. (Ynetnews)
I guess the CIA would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those pesky kids…
Last week, Pope Benedict has authorized increased use of the traditional Tridentine Mass (i.e., Mass in Latin). There are some concerns because the traditional Latin liturgy has a prayer for all Jews to be converted.
Still, others talk about “turning back the Catholic clock,” fearing that Benedict is on a mission to turn back the now-forty-year-old reforms of the Vatican II conference.
And still, others talk about the silliness of using an ancient, dead language for Mass, a language that most parishioners and probably all visitors will find unintelligible.
What to make of all this?
For all the disadvantages of using Latin, a sense of mystery is a definite advantage. Catholic theology is filled with mysteries
The candles, the architecture, the liturgical music — it’s all there to invoke a sense of the mysterium tremendum. The Latin — if parishioners understand what they’re saying — can only heighten that sense.
I have limited experience with Catholic Mass, but since K is Catholic, I do have more experience than I did ten years ago. Most of my Mass-going experience was in Poland, and when I came to the States, I found it odd to hear the liturgy in English. Odd, and demystifying.
After visiting the aquarium and walking around town a bit
we headed back to the hotel room for a bit of a break. And then the rain started.
That's when we decided to make use of the accident of our booking -- a room with a king-size bed (poor J slept on the most uncomfortable couch in history) with a jacuzzi in the room.
Naturally, with the Girl joining us, the water was not as not as it should have been, but that was offset by the joy of her splashing.
More at Flickr and YouTube (short video that includes a portion that has nothing to do with rain or a jacuzzi, but is amusing nonetheless).
After a little sightseeing in Chattanooga, we heading out for Pigeon Forge, where we'd be saying for the next two nights.
Our day in Gatlinburg began at the aquarium.
The initial impression -- a little cheesy. Fake sky with fake birds and fake clouds painted about the main tank.
Then we went through the tunnel, and it all made sense...
The underwater tunnel was so enlightening that we decided to go through it a second time before leaving.
It was a lot of fun, but I found myself wishing L was about two or three years older, so that she could enjoy it more. As could be expected, there was a kids' area where visitors could touch horseshoe crabs and crawl into amusing, picturesque fish tanks.
L couldn't crawl, so I helped.
Still, it seemed she had a pretty good time -- she slept, she ate, she saw a few new things. Overall, a success.
There are more pictures at Flickr. And of course there's a film.