You can't get there from Here

Every state in New England, at least northern New England, claims to be the grandpapa of this saying. A flatlander visiting Vermont, or Maine, or Massachusetts, or New Hampshire, so the story goes, asked a native how to get to the next town. The response, "You can't get there from here," delivered with the flat vowels and unpronounced r's of New England, has become legendary. Part of the reason it's legendary is because it's actually true, at least in spirt.

But the native had it all wrong. It's not, "You can't get there from here." Rather, the phrase should be, "If you don't know how to get there, you don't belong there." Exhibit A: if you are driving along a major city street, say in a large city (for New England) like Worcester, you will not be able to identify the street on which you are driving. You will see the names of all the cross streets, but the name of the street you're currently on will remain unattainable to you. You might luck out and see it on a diner sign, or a pizza parlor, or a grinder shop. But the city fathers in Worcester have decided that if you don't know where you are, you don't deserve to find out. And in this they are right in step with the rest of northern New England. No wonder the place has flat population numbers. People get lost, give up, and leave.

And have we talked about those things the English call roundabouts? Next time.

Home for the Holidays

I just had a moment of sheer terror. Joe College Grad assured me that he would call last night to provide flight info. There was no call--a late night buzz of his cell phone went unanswered. Then, OLGS tried to call him a few minutes ago. No answer. I had visions of Joe lying in an alley in New York, the cell phone ringing uselessly. Then I tried to call. He answered, and there was the noise of an airport behind his voice. He is flying out of JFK, on a DC-9 bound for Billings, of all places. He sounded bored, sleepy, and a little annoyed that we were bothering him. He sounded wonderful.

Death Penalty

There's been another state-sponsored death--this time in California. The victim was a gang leader who supposedly saw the error of his ways and spent his years on Death Row writing children's books and generally promoting a more positive approach to life than the one he espoused during his gang days. Some opponents of this execution cited Stanley Tookie Williams' turn-around as a reason to not execute him. And, while well meaning, they have it all wrong. Whether or not someone deserves the death penalty, or merits clemency in the application of that penalty, is not the issue.

Rather, the real issue is that the death penalty itself, and not its application, is wrong, wrong, wrong. It is unconstitutional, violating the prohibition of "cruel and unusual punishment." It makes us an outlaw among "civilized" nations, putting us among the ranks of places like Saudi Arabia, Singapore, China, and other monuments to barbarism. It weakens us as a culture, making us vengeful and petty. It is very expensive to administer. It has been demonstrated that the application of the death penalty is often based on incorrect evidence, poor lawyering, and racism. The list of reasons to abolish the death penalty is huge.

The reasons to keep it are few, and can easily dismissed. It has been shown that there is no deterrent effect. Many victims' families say that that the death of the perpetrator of the crime does not bring them relief.

And then there's the incredible inconsistency in the arguments. The proponents of the death penalty are often the same folks who beat their breasts about the right to life and the evils of the pro-choice movement. If life is so sacred at its beginning, what possible reason can there be for making an exception to end it at the behest of the state? There's some real faulty logic going on, as well as a sickening pandering to our most base instincts. Just because a few individuals would like revenge doesn't mean that we as a society should accomodate them--it has been shown that there is no social benefit, and a lot of social cost.

Minneapolis South High Swimming

Another swim meet. It's now the boys high school season, and after two weeks two meets have already taken place. It's going to be a rough season. All Minneapolis meets take place at Southwest High School, the only high school in Minneapolis with a pool. I try not to think of the facilities available to students in Minnetonka or Edina, or even Bloomington. The Southwest scoreboard and timers never work. There is no team bus to return to South after the meet, forcing students to beg rides. The team booster club provides the suits, pays for additional coaching and pool time, and generally supplies basics that are available freely to swimmers in richer communities.

There is something wrong with this picture. Parents in Edina and Minnetonka are presumably better able to supplement the swim teams' expenses, and probably don't need to do so (just guessing here, so correct me if I'm wrong). In contrast, Minneapolis parents generally are less likely to have extra money to support athletics, and need to do so if the programs are to continue. This is just one of the glaring inequalities caused by education funding in Minnesota. And while I am glad to support the swimmers, I would feel even better about it if I didn't have to.

South High lost the swim meet. Joe High School swam well, but there was some stiff, and unexpected, competition from one of the Southwest swimmers. And South lost a couple of its best swimmers from last year to graduation. But there's always next time.

Harvest Hope

Sunday, November 20, OLGS and Joe College are speaking in two different Unitarian churches half a continent apart about their experiences in Romania as pilgrims to a Unitarian Transylvanian village in the summer of 2005. Far from being a place where Vlad the Impaler is fondly remembered, the small farming villages of Transylvania exist in a kind of cultural twilight zone.

Hungarian-speaking in a sea of not-quite-hostile Romanians, the Unitarian villagers of Transylvania have an economy that is part subsistence, part modern capitalism. Many of them do not have indoor plumbing or electricity, but have cell phones and satellite dishes. There is a village bakery, as in medieval times, and a village tavern, where Joe College appears to have spent much of his pilgrimage time. There are beautiful high hills, a charming market town, and welcoming people. There appears to be little discussion of the vast economic gap between American Unitarians who visit and support these villages that represent the home of Unitarianism, and the struggle of the agricultural villagers. There also appears to be little analysis of the role of Unitarian churches in 21st century Transylvania--they are populated mainly by senior citizens.

And this is probably just as well. The purpose of the pilgrimage is not to bring people, kicking and screaming, into a market economy with American gender roles. Rather, the pilgrimage is designed to open rich American eyes to the diversity of our faith--and, despite barbs from cultural pundits like Garrison Keilor, it is a faith. Unitarians have a set of core values, and then branch out.

The church where OLGS is speaking this morning is an overtly Christian Unitiarian church, barely distinguishable from Massachusetts Congregationalists except for avoiding any mention of the Trinity. This is similar to the Transylvanian Unitarians. Co-oincidently, this Massachusetts church enjoyed the leadership of a minister from Transylvania for many years. Our St. Paul church, where Joe College will do his thing, is, for a non-Massachusetts UU congregation, pretty theistic, but that's as far as it goes. This is a big tent church, with recovering Catholics, mixed faith Jewish-Christian couples who have found a suitable compromise here, and lots of "cradle" Unitarians. It's all good.

And I'm waiting to see if OLGS tries to go back to Romania in the summer of 2006--there's an announcement of a history pilgrimage. How could he not go?

Unemployment blues

I've clearly passed the point where I think I'm going to get another job at the same level as before. Almost 11 months since I was "laid off" (dumped) for reasons best known to the folks in charge at the Minneapolis Public Library, I do think that there has been some underground lobbying against me. In short, not only am I depressed, I'm also paranoid. I've even begun to question the wisdom of my claim against the library--now that I've accused them of contract violations, I can't use any of them as references to get another position. I'm assured by everyone that these feelings are completely normal for people in my position. What "everyone" doesn't say is whether anything is ever going to change.

But, what they did to me, and a number of other people, was illegal. That certain knowledge keeps me going. Watch this space for more updates.

Claim activity this week:Minnesota Department of Human Rights assigned an investigator to my case, who appears to be honing in on some important issues. Of course, his questions this week require me to do a little work. Horrors!!!

Carpets and cats

Yesterday we rented the Rug Doctor to do the carpet in the master bedroom and associated stairs. Whoever thought that pale gray carpet was a good idea should definitely get checked out out at the nearest facility. And I confess it was I--I thought pale gray would be still masculine enough appeal to OLGS (Oldest Living Graduate Student) and pick up some subtle very pale blue in the curtains at the same time. I was wrong on at least one count--OLGS doesn't care about the carpet color. And since the rest of the decor is pretty haphazard, the alleged match to the curtains is insignificant in the scheme of things.

So I made a bad decorating decision. But at least one constituency in the household likes the pale gray carpet, and that's the cats. Specifically, they like to throw up on it. Rather than using the multicolored patterns of the living room Orientals, where the stains would blend in, they choose the pale gray as the best place to toss their little cookies. So, the vast expanse of carpet in our bedroom was covered with mysterious little irregular spots that would disappear for a few days if treated with grocery- store stain remover and then reappear.

The Rug Doctor worked fine. We'll see how long it takes for the stains to re-emerge, whether because of the cats or the lack of power in the Doctor's vibrating brushes.

Swim Meet

Joe High School, aka Kid #3, participated in Twinvite, a swim meet put on by TWIN, the U of M-associated swim club. I've probably attended four dozen swim meets in the past four years, most of them in very hot, highly chlorinated, middle school or high school pools. The Twinvite, as are all TWIN-sponsored events, is held at the U of M Natatorium, an amazing venue. It's large, clean, high ceilinged, with a working jumbotron, and an excellent recording of U of M songbirds singing the national anthem--in other words, all the candy. But what I really like about the TWIN swim meets is that the programs, for which other clubs charge $8 or $10 and use as a fund-raiser, are only $1.00, with no ads. The ads, of course, are on the jumbotron, along the walls, etc.

Swim meets are, for parents, a time to catch up on the grading, the crossword puzzle, the Sunday paper, or the latest bestseller. The kid swims for one minute, unless he does the really long events, and then hangs out for a hour until his next event. There's a rhythm to the meet, but it's hard to catch.

Joe High School didn't do very well in this meet--usually he makes progress during meets. In only one event did he beat his personal best time, and that was in the 200 freestyle. Otherwise, his head wasn't really in it. And he said he had technical difficulties--the cap was filled with air, which slowed him down. But he had a solution--practice with a cap on to get used to it. Most boys don't practice with caps. So we'll see if his solution to the problem works.


No high school girls at the meet--they are all swimming in the Minnesota High School League in the fall. Joe High School swims for South High in the winter.

UW-Eau Claire Night at the Dome

Tonight was UW-Eau Claire night at the Metrodome. This means that the wonderful a capella group, The Singing Statesmen, sing the national anthem. There are coupons for hotdogs, and some minor administrator throw out the first pitch. Since the Twins are in the tank, the game means nothing except to those who love baseball no matter who's playing or what the standings show.

The Oldest Living Graduate Student (OLGS) took 15 of his freshmen students to the game. They sat around our backyard, being polite, not drinking the soda or eating the chips. Most of them are from small town Wisconsin, although two were from Minneapolis suburbs. One of them, son of stiking Northwest employee, flew in from Eau Claire. The suburban parents came along, too, helping drive the kids from Eau Claire and back. A couple of the students had never been to the Twin Cities before. After the game, OLGS plans to have them ride the light rail line (LRT) to the Mall of America where they will catch their rides back to Eau Claire. Hope they like the big city.

They seem like nice kids. However, they made me feel ancient because I had to explain who Rod Carew is--the first 10,000 attendees at the Dome get a bronze statue of Rod. The kids didn't have a clue. This speaks not just to their youth, but to the decline of baseball as a central cultural touchstone. I didn't even grow up in the midwest, but I know who Rod Carew is. And I'm a girl.

Minimum wage

My long period of unemployment has temporarily ended. I get paid for writing, at piecework rates, web advertising copy for lawyers. While the agency says we should be earning a minumum of $16.00/hour, half of what I used to earn as a library manager, on some days it's closer to $6.00. But, I guess that's OK--Prexy Bush seems to feel that that wage level is just fine. If it doesn't bother him, it shouldn't bother me. Right?

For a little context on that last comment, cast your mind back to the mind-numbing debates between Bush and Senator Kerry in 2004. When the minimum wage issue came up Bush side-stepped it, and not very neatly, by talking about education. Would hate to actually dance with that guy if his performance on that question is indicative of his larger dancing skills. Watch out for your feet, ladies (and your pocketbooks).

Colonoscopy

Call today!! Get yours while they last.

The oldest living grad student (OLGS) had a colonoscopy today. They pumped him full of interesting drugs, and he was a zombie, not even awake enough to enjoy the stuff coursing through his veins. That didn't happen to me, at least to that degree (I kinda enjoyed the drugs), and confirms my belief that men are wimps when it comes to physical discomfort. But he's cleared for 5-7 years. He was jealous--I was cleared for 10.

Joe College, a.k.a. kid #2, went with him, waited, was there when he woke up, and drove him home. It was touching to see OLGS's gratitude, and Joe College's true willingness to help his dad. It bodes well for our declining years, which will come faster than any of us like to think.

School lunch, or teaching in the Bronx, part deux

Joe College-Grad loves teaching his first graders at PS 107 in the Bronx. After one week, he loves the kids, loves their energy, loves their street smarts, and is not dismayed at all by their lack of preparation--many of them don't know the alphabet, numbers or colors. Would that all teachers retained this level of enthusiasm forever.

PS 107's web site needs updating--the events list is from 2001....

And, if you're wondering what the folks working and learning at PS 107 eat, check out the New York City school lunch menu. It looks like the news that many students are of Latin American origin has not reached the folks making food decisions for kids in New York.

Cat Tails

Have you noticed that most black cats really aren’t? Take mine, for example. In the summer their coarse black fur thins out, and what’s left is a luscious soft chocolate that is especially visible when they sun themselves. And, being proud mixed breed alley cats, they have their tiger ancestors' stripes that show when they stretch out on the driveway to catch a few rays. But another Minnesota winter is on its way, and the coats of my feline friends will soon morph into solid black—no chocolate, no stripes.

Community Supported Agriculture (CSA)

Yet another fabulous bag of veggies arrived today. Every Tuesday from spring through fall (or greens through brussels sprouts) we pick up the bag (cloth, of course) from a neighbor's porch. In this week's shipment were purple and green peppers, cabbage, parsley, onions, carrots, broccoli, eggplant, and the most gorgeous bunch of thyme. The kitchen smells wonderful.

What do we pay for this bounty? For a mere $250 a season we get these weekly shipments--in essence, we're buying shares in our farm, Spring Hill Community Farm. We have the duty and pleasure of occasionally helping at the farm. And we have the knowledge that we are supporting and are part of an alternative to corporate agriculture.

And, did I mention, that the cloth bag in which the produce arrives needs to be washed before returning it for the next shipment--in fragrance free detergent, natch.

South High Minneapolis

My third son, Joe High School, started at Minneapolis South High this week. He will be in all tenth grade classes as a ninth grader except for French. Since he has a tin ear, I suspect French, or any spoken language, will be difficult, despite his native smarts. He should have taken Latin, which they offer. That way there would be no worries about the accent.

He is the third of my kids to enter the Liberal Arts program at Minneapolis South. This is the district's effort to provide a prep school program at public school prices. In addition to Latin, they offer Ojibwe, most AP classes, and really fine music and theater programs. This is all done on a very small budget--one that's become ever smaller since my first kid (Joe College-Grad) hit South High eight years ago. Despite this, Minneapolis South High is one of the jewels in the otherwise rusty crown of Minneapolis education. But it won't continue for much longer. The classes are large--usually more than 35 students. This is not good, and it's not improving. Go to South High Sucks to get a pretty good view of what's happening to a once fine urban school.

I've offered to send him (and his brothers) to St. Paul Academy, where the average class size hovers around 15 at worst. I firmly believe that it's class size, not the qualifications of the teachers, that separates the sheep from the goats, educationally speaking. Minneapolis South has some outstanding teachers.

But those boys won't go. All their friends go to Minneapolis South. Moreover, going to an inner city school gives kids an edge when they enter the real world, whether it's at college on the south side of Chicago, or teaching first grade in an elementary school in New York City. So I've let them choose public schools.

And when I attend the South High concerts, I am amazed both by the abilities of the kids to make music, and the ability of the conductor to develop a coherent and skilled voice from a disparate gro

Off to the races, part deux, or Gay 90's bites the dust

Turns out Joe College didn't go to the Gay 90's after all (see September 4 post). Did he get cold feet? Couldn't he get a group together, or did he have no intention of going at all and just wanted to see how we'd react? Your guess is a good as mine.

Macro and micro, or more than you want to know about cleaning

My spouse and I have developed a system for household management. He does the big stuff, I do the details. This seems like a fair division of labor, although, as he’s pointed out, it’s more noticeable if he doesn’t do his part. No one (except me, he claims), notices if there are fingerprints on the light switches. But, if the lawn isn’t mowed, folks talk. But, as Martha must have said, "The devil is in the details."

Speaking of mowing, here’s how the allocation of labor works in the lawn care department. He mows the lawn. I sweep up the walkways, and then mow the actual edge of the lawn. Occasionally I use the weed wacker to get the bits that can’t be reached with the lawn mower, such as the underside of the swing set. Recently, though, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend, a personality change. I’ve caught him pulling grass out of the cracks in the sidewalk, a task that used to be mine. Maybe landscaping is something that grows on you, appeals to the male need for public acclaim, or something. In any event, I haven’t seen this change when it comes to the interior of the house, where the division of labor is still crystal clear.

Take the kitchen, for example. He will load and unload the dishwasher—no one is faster in the dishwasher derby. I clean the sink, where I find bits of lettuce, strands of spaghetti, remnants of grapes, and stuff best left unidentified(I think he believes that a stainless steel sink does not require cleaning). He takes out the garbage, I wash the garbage container. He wipes the counters, I dust the top of the fridge. He cleans the top of the stove, I polish the exposed disposal parts. He feeds the cats, I wash the hardened milk spots off the floor. I think this is a pretty equitable arrangement, as it leaves me with the energy to do the interesting stuff, like using a toothbrush to clean the infinitesimal space between sink and countertop. He thinks I’m nuts.

Laundry operations work in a similar way. He washes clothes, and even sorts them first. For a long time he added at least a cup of liquid bleach, but recently switched to powder, as he was beginning to notice the massive white stains on his jeans. If I get there in time, I do the spot cleaning, take the money out of the pockets, remove the used Kleenex, and clean out the dryer vent. I wipe the top of the machines. I match the socks. No one irons. We are united in this.

Dusting is very easy—I do it, he doesn’t. He vacuums, and quite well. He washes the cars. I take torn, ragged pillowcases out of service. I sew on buttons, removing the safety pins that appear when his waistband gets a tad snug. I change the towel in the cat bed. He scrubs the tub, I clean the tile. He bakes cookies, I scour the tins. I think you get the picture.

Is this simply a question of Mars and Venus? Or not seeing the details? Or seeing them and not caring? It could be all of these. But my theory is that what folks will tolerate in their environment is fixed at some time in their developmental years. When this happens varies. But my wonderful guy probably reached that point sometime in his first year of graduate school. At that stage, simply having your own apartment was the grand prix. What the inside of that apartment looked like was secondary. And, graduate students are exploring the celestial life of the mind, not worrying about down and dirty dust bunnies. I’ve resigned myself to the existence of a perpetual grad student, even though he’s long been a full professor. It could be so much worse—he could be a neat nut, and then I’d be sunk. I’d have to clean systematically, rather than just doing the fun stuff. Like cleaning the blinds with a large Q-tip.

Teaching in the Bronx, living in Harlem

If son #2 is Joe College, then kid #1 is Joe College-Grad. Instead of going to graduate school, and immersing himself in the work-study-get-ahead-kill mode of some of his high achieving peers, or trying to get a job and failing, like many of his other pals, he choose Teach for America(TFA). It didn't hurt that this path leads him to New York City, where he now lives in Harlem, part of the gentrification of this previously gritty part of town. It also doesn't hurt that he is paid the beginning salary of a New York teacher, or that TFA assumes the interest on his loans during his two year stint. It's all good. There's a doorman...

Except....Joe #1 walks across Harlem to the #6-IND train, which takes him into the depths of the Bronx, where he then catches a bus that takes him into the neighborhood where Amadou Dialo met his end at the hands of the New York police. The school, PS 107, is a troubled school, with significant staff turnover and less than wonderful test scores. Surrounding it are some elderly housing projects. None of this dampens his enthusiasm for the first graders he meets tomorrow.

"I'm going to teach them to read," he announces. "They will read every day, I will send books home, I'll visit their apartments, I'll talk with their parents. I'll read to them in class. They'll have a great start to their education." We talk over the noise of the airplanes and wind blowing through his cell phone as he suns himself on his Harlem rooftop. I try to restrain myself, telling him only once to take the bus to the subway rather than walking across Harlem at 5:30 in the morning. He tells me he's bought some neckties. "Gotta look serious, Mom." I am so proud.

Off to the races, or my son goes to the Gay 90's (sort of)

Joe College, a.k.a. the middle son, says he might not attend the freshmen events scheduled tonight for his U of M dorm (lame?). Instead, he announces, he might go to the Gay 90s, a Minneapolis gay bar, drag club, and general tourist trap downtown.

We pounce immediately. I say, "Please don't get picked up by an HIV-positive guy." Dad, more sensibly, says, "Are you going in a group?" There's some eye rolling, and it finally emerges that he's been there before, he doesn't like guys but enjoys the drag shows, is going with a group, and will only drink Coke, Sunday being an 18+ night at the club.

He thanks us for dinner, and charges out the door. As he passes the open window he shouts, "Of course, I might just go to the dorm event, too." And then he climbs on his bike and is gone. His Dad and I look at each other with love, wonder, and amazement at what we have wraught. Have we given him what he needs to navigate a very strange world? Have our Unitarian values rubbed off on a non-joining guy? I don't know.