Power Animal

I always thought that a hippo should be my power animal. I didn't think it really fit because it's weird to think that I am guided by something that looks sweet (at least in the cartoons), but is really a violent, brutal, wild thing. It wasn't the best inspiration during runs (or really anything else), but I couldn't decide on another animal... so hippo it was.

But two recent experiences with hawks might sway me to this medium sized-bird of prey.

The first was in New Jersey over Christmas. We were all lounging around (read: Katie, Mom, Sister watching tv) when Dad (who was probably rewiring the house or something productive like that) said, "Come here and check this out!" Below the bird feeder, a hawk was promenading around like she was in a square dance without a partner. She was scoping out the chipmunks and sparrows who also hang out around said feeder. If the wall weren't there, I could have tossed a stone and hit it. (Not that I was going to throw rocks at the bird, but I'm not that good of a shot so it shows how close she was...). I think I said, "Wowie."

The second incident happened the other day at UNCA. I was walking along the quad (that's what we co-eds do: walk around the quad to class) when a brownish and whitish hawk flew directly at me at eye level. I stopped. It continued. I didn't flinch and it soared up past my left shoulder and landed on a branch by my side. I looked at it and thought, "Wowie!"

I didn't want to say it this time because there were 18 and 19 year olds around wearing rad clothes like tight black jeans and little leather jackets. I think one of them had a Euro-mullet. As I watched the bird, the people blurred out-of-focus in my periphery. The hawk and I locked eyes and had a moment together until I had to go to class. I thought about yelling, "Nous rencontrerons encore un jour mon cheri!"* But I didn't. (See above for explanation... also, by the way, I was wearing my pea coat with a little Outward Bound Blue Peter pin on the label. Preppy 27 year old dweeb yelling in French to a tree?)

I have thought about that hawk for the last couple of days.

While I'm not trying to read too much into it, I think that coincidences are strange and important to recognize. Pay attention. Wake up. My everyday drama is not the world.





.....................................
*(By the way, that means, "We'll meet again someday, my dear!" I knew how to say "we will meet a day my dear," but had to look up the phrase to get the right verb tense and remember how to say "again." Credit goes to the internet: http://ets.freetranslation.com/, not my high school French classes.)

Strong Women

It was Virginia Woolf's birthday the other day.

I didn't really have an opinion about her before taking a seminar on her during college. Then I decided that I really liked her. I liked the Dreadnought Hoax that she played with Duncan Grant, Guy Ridley, and Anthony Buxton in which they fooled everyone by pretending to be Ethiopian Royalty. She was sexual, sad, and intelligent. I liked her nuance and style in writing and living.

I took that class with my pal tinytinbird, and for some reason, Virginia Woolf always makes me think of that little bird's mom. Not the depression or lesbian side of Woolf, but that side of her full of spunk and independence.

Throughout college, my friend's mom would send poems and words about being confident women. One poem by Martin Edmunds has this great image, "I am sweet tea, I am these red seeds on a white plate..."

She once sent an excerpt from Sylvia Plath's journal about being lonely amongst boring and fake people while she was away at school. Before I met my great Colby friends, this felt too familiar as I would often go to parties just to fight loneliness. I should have followed Ms. Plath's lead as she wrote, "No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter: 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down." I still have that photocopied page in a box next to my bed.

This mom is a writer and an inspiration. She told us that we were strong and beautiful women who should be self-assured, especially with men. I work to remember that.

Here is a quote from Mrs. Dalloway that I love. It reminds me of the times after having a great cry... those times when I've had those low and wide breaths. I can take care of myself. It feels meditative.

“So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying ‘that is all’ more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.”

Eyes, Tails, and a Wispy Snowball Fight

I am hesitant to put close-up photos of my students on my blog- even though they are posted on our Asheville TAASC website. I want to respect their privacy.

However, I also want to convey the feeling of our trips through my photos. Our little ones had a great time last weekend playing in the snow, hiking up and over Gingercake and Sitting Bear mountains, and climbing with the Morganton teenagers at their clubhouse. At times, I put my camera on continous and moved it around to capture the snowball fighting and happy energy. Here are some glimpses that I hope will illustrate that energy without revealing too much...

I'd love to know others' thoughts about this.

Clarifications

So to clarify the bit about the bloody gauze: on a nine-day Outward Bound course last summer, one of our students had some bloody gauze (from her blisters maybe? nothing serious...). She put it in her climbing helmet when she took off her helmet to go to the bathroom. It was gross. We disinfect all of the helmets, so it's all cool if you ever go on an Outward Bound course.


...
One of our students clarified to me this weekend about the Santa Claus situation. She said, "You know, I knew that it was my mom even before I asked her. I could tell by this pretty wrapping paper that she has... and then I asked her and she told me. I mean, what was she going to do, lie to me about it? "

She went on, "I never believed in the Easter Bunny. Who would!? Think about it: some little rabbit bringing candy to you? Get real, lady."

"The only thing that I'm not sure about is the Tooth Fairy because I don't know how my mom could slip $20 under my pillow without me waking up..."

I interjected to exclaim, "Twenty dollars?"

She explained about having to get it pulled at the dentist and a needle in her mouth and how her mom's boyfriend only got 25 cents when he was little (because it could buy a whole lot, back then...). This was all in one long breath.

After this tangent, she added her thoughts about why her mom's boyfriend couldn't be the Tooth Fairy, either. She said, "You know, I always pictured the Tooth Fairy as this dainty little thing. I can't picture him wearing a little tutu."

one quote from course.

I knew things were dire when I found myself saying to a student, "Ana, could you please take your bloody gauze out of your climbing helmet?"

It's a Klingon life for us, It's a Klingon life for us. 'Stead of treated, we get tricked. 'Stead of kisses, we get kicked! It's a Klingon life.

Dear Stacy,

I was looking for a middle english translator online so I could write this post in ME, but they aren't as plentiful as other kinds of translation services. So then I found a Klingon translator, but half of the words that I typed in didn't register (so they were just normal and the message was kind of boring).

Then I tried to type words that I thought they'd know, like "lasers" and "spaceships" and "humanoids," but no luck. The Klingon Language Institute is pretty neat looking, though. Maybe I'll check it out more when I've the time. Here are some phrases from the website:
nuqjatlh? (Huh?)
nuqDaq 'oH puchpa''e' (Where is the bathroom?)
Hab SoSlI' Quch! (Your mother has a smooth forehead. Note: this is a powerful insult; don't say it to friends.)
bIjatlh 'e' yImev (Shut up!)
Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam (today is a good day to die).

Boy, they really don't mince words.

Talk with you soon.

Love,
Katie

PS
Here's an interesting fact from Wikipedia about Klingon:
"Klingon reproduction proceedures are said to be very violent. Often involving lots of wrestling, throwing about the room, and other violent activities. Sex, like many things in Klingon life, is a battle."

Palliating the Pink Pepster

Last summer we had a superhero party. Pandora went as the Fruity Barbarian, Billy went as Infinite Nasty (I think?), Julie went as the Master of Etiquette (very fitting), and I went as the Pink Pepster. I liked to pep people up with positive notes like, "Hey, did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are beautiful?" and cheerleading during our kickball game. Here's the Pepster in Action:

My pal from Vacamas, KevIN actually commented about my huge "knickers." Just so you know, the first rule in superhero-ing is to cover the tush, Kev.

Kickball, not so great. Cheering, the BOMB. I had the crowd cheering with Jersey accents, which is the way that I learned to cheer, "We're dynamite, we're dynamite, we're tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick tick-tick BOOM! Dy-na-mite! We're BOOM! Dy-na-mite!" I didn't make the squad in second grade, but I bet I'm one of the few who still remembers all of the cheers.

I like to be optimistic. All is usually well I'm getting enough sleep, food, and exercise. When not, I turn into not so cute Katies. Nate used to have a gallery of Nerd candies on his windowsill entitled, Nerds that Look Like Katie. Each had a little post-it note next to it with descriptions like, Morning Katie, Low-Blood Sugar Katie... It was really quite touching and artistic. I think the arts section of the Colby Echo reported that his exhibit was, "Nuanced, yet dynamic."

Most of the time, it works out a-okay for me to be positive. And actually, a lot of the time, I'm not walking around giving people rainbow stickers and daffodils. I mean, get real people! But I strive to remain an optimistic and compassionate person.

At times, however, this Pepster attitude messes me up. It's late as I write this, and I know that the Pepster will have a little less shine under her eyes tomorrow. But tonight was interesting; it has made me think about my behavior and attitude, especially in past relationships.

So with the goal of being brief, protecting my (and other people's) privacy, and not making this a public diary or therapy session, here are the top three reasons why the Pepster should dull herself in relationships sometimes.

1. It's annoying. Sometimes you have to be a little whiny to really bond with coworkers and friends. People know that you are real and not putting off a holier-than-thou front. (Let's face it, Cynical Katie and Bitchy Katie are fun, too.)

2. She becomes a Perpetual Cheerleader: Sometimes people fall into patterns of being grumpy. These people aren't her arch-nemeses like the Abysmal Aficionado or anything, but it takes a toll on the pep. For one, the Pepster risks burning out from constantly being stretched to use her powers. For two, the Pepster never has time to dabble with other Nerd personas. For three, the Pepster becomes an enabler and accepts inappropriate behavior just to avoid conflicts. In conclusion, the Pepster needs to accept if people want to be perpetually pissy.

3. Pepster isn't always clear with her intentions. Sometimes the Pepster flirts. Sometimes she means to. Sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes people think that she is putting off one vibe, while she means another one. Sometimes she knows she is putting out a flirty vibe when she doesn't really mean it, but doesn't know why she puts out that vibe. (Come on, now, Pep. Be honest now, could Elly's old Vacamas song that is sung to the tune of La Cucaracha have anything to do with it? You know the one, "I want attention, I want attention. Lalala lala lala!") Hmm.

I'll add these points to my Super Super Manual.

I appreciate Trish and Nate being my superheroes tonight and reminding me that it's okay to be a little human every now and then. Maybe I'll call Clark Kent to see if he has another pair of glasses.

Home Economics

After freaking out about the lack of money in my bank account (I think I whined, "but why is it so low?"), my mother gently suggested that I should find out what I'm really spending each month.

I must admit that my previous budget guesses were pretty low, which would only mean that while the bank tellers were sleeping, little Brownie Scout Gnomes were sneaking in and taking their rightful compensation for centuries of helping with the household chores while everyone else was sleeping... just to be helpful. I always thought those gnomes (or were they trolls? fairies?) would one day seek retribution. Does anyone else know that story?

This money conversation with my folks also had elements of me saying, While I want to study and save and be a good little Ben Franklin-esque early to bed and riser,

I ALSO want to go on a climbing trip and spend time with Asheville friends and buy my groceries and clothes from only the freshest places ("fresh" clothes as in "damn, that tee shirt is FRESH, girl." No one says that to me, though) and visit friends and family and go to yoga classes

and... the run-on sentence continued on for a bit. This might have spurred my mother's suggestion to figure out my expenses.

So this morning, I downloaded all of my bank statements and credit card bills from the past four months into an Excel spreadsheet; then I split it by titles like "rent" or "going out to dinner and drinking" or "gas." You know, the essentials.

The spreadsheet looked distressing but not completely dire. Although Heiwa Sushi came up more than once in each month, I figure that I'm investing in my future by eating well now. Anyway, I vowed to watch my spending, work a lot, and view studying as work (which will cut down on the spending time and be more of an investment than Special Spicy Tuna rolls).

Jump forward to the evening after working on some Outward Bound grant research and going for a run. I went to Greenlife Grocery to get some flour, bananas, a birthday present for gg, and other essentials. Two grocery bags and $92.28 later, I was walking out of the store. I actually chuckled at the irony as I was leaving the store. I mean, I passed on the fresh flowers and bars of gold in the aisle. A few eggs, some coffee, a couple of sweet potatoes... chocolate... I got home and examined the list, looking for the double-digit culprits. Okay, so the bottle of wine... but it's a gift! (I actually made a column on my spreadsheet called "gifts and donations") The coffee... makes sense, but I even went for the "mystery coffee," which is discounted because someone ground it and then didn't buy it. I took the chance that this "mystery grinder" could have whooping cough and could have whooped into the coffee, just to save a buck. So I don't feel bad about it.

But then I saw the chocolate covered expresso beans on my receipt. $10.34. Look at the size of this bag of beans:

I don't even know if I like them so much. But now I have to enjoy them, I guess. Maybe I'll just eat ten chocolate covered expresso beans for dinner tonight.

They might cost as much as a sushi roll...

Munchkins

One of our TAASC students named the group of 8-year old boys, "the munchkins." They have a similar size and tone of voice to those of the Wizard of Oz Munchkins, but they are a bit more spastic.

Four of them scrunch into a 2 person tent; three sleep in a row and one sleeps at their feet. Very cute. They are like puppies wrestling when they tackle each other and the older kids. We are training these puppies to sit and listen when necessary, and they are training us to be crazier when running around and playing.

We camped on an island on a fall canoeing trip to Lake James. Here's a photo of the kids waiting for "seconds" of mac n cheese. I pretended they were orphans in Oliver Twist when they lined up for more food, and insisted that they say, "Please sir, may I have some more?" to Greg. I told them, "Look sad and hungry for the picture!" Here's the result:
Sad, but you can do better.

Before dinner, though, the kids ran around the beach, caught guppies, swam, and set up tents. At some point during this fun, a mop-like dog who was camping with his family on the other side of the island came over to visit. The munchkins darted around with this dog and yelled things like, "Hey Johnny! Look at this!" while trying to impress each other with stunts.

At one point, the "Hey Johnny!" turned into, "Hey Katie! Look at this!" As I turned, he added, "Katie, look how this dog LOVES us! It's hugging my leg!" Of course, the "gg" in "hugging" should be replaced with an "m" and a "p." I chased the dog off of the munchkin and said to him, "Hey, don't let that dog hug your leg anymore."

Here are a couple of other pictures from the trip:

Let the Homework Begin

When I got home yesterday (after spending the snowy day with Francis and half-watching this bizarre sci-fi movie called "Sunshine"), I saw a magical little usps envelope on my doorstep. Yes, you guessed it, my textbook: Economics: A Tool for Critically Understanding Society. It doesn't have the nice purple cover like in the picture (and in the bookstore), but it was like Christmas in January to get it.

Yea graphs! Yea supply and demand!

I'd be ecstatic if anyone would want to order it and read along. Econ textbook book club?

Go Bull Dogs!

Since being at the University of Arkansas, my pal Brain has really embraced the Razorback culture. He can quote stats and talk about the football coach for many minutes. He even met someone named (from birth) Ray. Middle name: Zorback. Put it together and you'll see that their fans are a little bit more hog-wild than our polite Colby White Mule fans. This logo (below) is actually a little tougher than the one that was presented when I was in college. I tried to find the older logos that was a cartoon of a horse-type animal with a big head and little body. Its eyes were huge as if opened in fear, pleading, "Please don't hurt me." They were kind and sad eyes.

Since being a new student at UNC Asheville with my 3 credit hours, I think I'm going to follow my friend's lead and embrace our little UNCA Bulldogs.

I'm only going to wear blue and white on the day of the "big game." Who knows if that big game is football or gymnastics or basketball. Hey, UNC-Chapel Hill is pretty good at basketball, right? I think that the sports fans don't actually call it "UNC Chapel Hill," though, I think they just call it "Carolina." Right? So is UNCA called "Carolina: Westside?"

There's so much to learn! I'm going to the bookstore to buy some drink cozies, little pom-poms and a stadium seat. GO TEAM!

.....

Actually, I think I need to reconsider this for a moment. My hesitation lies not in a lack of school spirit (I just thought of this cheer, "We're more than OK.. we're UNCA!"), but in the hyper-macho way that the bulldog looks.

I know that it's silly to put so much thought into the logo, but I love that branding stuff. I love clever packaging designs, posters, and book jackets. I do judge (and buy) books by their covers.

I used to read Adbusters for its anti-consumption stance, but then I discovered that I like it more for its artistic design. I like clever design, regardless of whether its intended to make me buy a belief or buy a burrito.

So when I started to look up these logos, I started to notice things like the little drip coming out of the Razorback's nose as if it were exhaling so violently that it spewed spit. Notice the eyes on the three logos on this page. I would describe them in this order: 1. scary and agressive 2. intelligent and discerning 3. insane and macho. I don't like those mean mascots. I'd rather have the confident and calm one like our sinewy mule.

Now, I know I'm not a competitive athlete (someone has to come in last place, right?), so maybe I'm missing something about how these mascots inspire the Venus Williams of the world. For all of you athletes out there... any thoughts? Maybe I'll go buy a REAL bulldog to inspire my school spirit.

Until then, I think I'll look into the Student Government Club.

ECON101

I've just started my macroeconomics class at UNC Asheville. On the first day of class (after getting my student id card and being blown away by the $140 softcover textbook that we need to buy for the class), I really had to focus on being present.

The professor started class by asking each student, "And, what is your major?" (maybe I just imagined that over-emphasized "h" in "what...") as he took attendance. As the freshmen Claires and Calvins droned, "business" or "accounting," I considered what (or what) I would say.

I decided to follow the lead of the other non-typical student. This man, who sat in the front of the class, must have been at least 70 years old. When the professor called on him, however, he said, "Undecided" like some of the 18 year old Joeys who were wearing UNCA sweatpants.

What the hell? Was he serious or taking a piss out of the professor? I considered the sarcasm and coolness factor of this guy and decided that he was serious. Which was even funnier. As Alyssa said, "Geez man, if you haven't decided by now..."

Finally, it was my turn. I said, "I'm a non-degree seeking student" (using my registration classification for the terminology). He asked me to explain my intentions with this class and I replied that I was considering going to graduate school for business. He replied something like, "Ah, yes."

As the professor began talking about markets and rhetoric, I found my mind wandering to thoughts about these Transformers Reebox sneakers that I saw in ID Magazine and how I need to be more assertive in TAASC meetings. I felt like my brain and intention (ah yes, for an MBA someday) was meditating on his words-- to take good notes and understand this new discipline-- while my mind, eyes, breath, and kidneys were working on thinking about style, bluebirds, rock climbing, and iced tea. At one point, I had to consciously refoucus these truant thoughts.

I could tell by his ability to quote philosophers and economists in every other sentence that this professor is smart. At times I felt tempted to ask him how to spell the words he was saying so that I could look them up when I got home. Because I was so out of my element, I thought about bringing some of my academic expertise into the classroom.

I was thinking about breaking out a little, "Whan that Aprill with hise shoures soote... " since I had to memorize it for a Chaucer class in college. And I don't even have that memorized that well; I had to call Alyssa tonight to ask her how to spell that Middle English. Luckily, she keeps her Canterbury Tales near the telephone. (By the way, I wasn't surprised that Alyssa had it right there since she, according to Professor Narin Van Court, "had one of the best Middle English accents" that she's ever heard... I think Lyssie might start a roundtable Chaucer reading club and call it Speculum Vitae II.)

I only considered, "The droghte of March hath perced to the roote/And bathed every veyne in swich licour/Of which vertu engendred is the flour..." for a minute since I didn't know how to link this Prologue into the professor's stories of the Industrial Revolution and Marxism... maybe I can write something called "The ECON101 Professor's Tale" in Middle English about utility, demand, and unemployment. I'll need Lyssie's help for the translation.

After reading an article for homework, I think I am starting to understand how to weave storytelling into economics. It's what Ben Bernanke does, right?


*One more note: in order to learn "business smarts" experientially (thanks, Outward Bound!), I'm slacking a bit academically. You see, I've only done half of my homework assignment that is due tomorrow because I found the same $140 textbook online for $69.82 plus shipping and handling. Right now I'm waiting for that shipping and handling charge to pay off.

Bettin' on Baby

My good friend Sarah is about to have a baby. It should be a good one, since Sarah and Charlie are fabulous.

Because we have bets on the due date, I hope she waits until the 22nd of January (down to the hour would be nice, but I'll take what I can get). There's a trophy involved.

The fact that Charlie suggested that we bet on Sarah's due date doesn't really surprise me since a wager has already been made on this baby... way back in 2001.

You see, Charlie and Nate were throwing rocks at a stump. Nate made the wager that if he hit the stump, he'd get: naming rights to Charlie's first born child and the right to have said child after his or her 8th birthday. (Nate didn't want the hassle of those first few years.)

Charlie lost the bet and Nate declared the child's name to be Sponge.

Sarah and Charlie were dating at the time, and they got married a couple of years later.

So about 9 months ago, Nate was visiting me in Asheville. It was a beautiful Saturday, so we went out to breakfast at the West End Bakery with all of the children under the age of 4 in West Asheville (and their parents, clearly). The bakery was brimming with board books and baby bjorns. As we were sitting outside, I asked Nate, "Do you think Sarah and Charlie will have a baby soon?"

Nate replied, "Ooooooh, I'm not ready."

I said, "Nate, you have 8 years to get ready..."

Later that day, Sarah called to tell us that she was pregnant.

Jump forward to last night. Sarah and I were talking about the birthdate bet, and I told her that one of two options would be ideal:

1. She holds off until January 22nd (I'd like that trophy...) or

2. She has the baby today (January 16th). It's Nate's birthday; he'd have an easier time remembering Sponge's birthday if Sarah have her baby today.

Sarah has always been the most grounded, wholesome, and logical of our friends. She could give us advice, cut our hair, and fix a car all within the same day. She's the beautiful mediator who smoothed me over when Nate spit in my face back in college. (Granted, I did tell him I had whooping cough and coughed on him... ) Sarah also understands the importance of bets in our lives.

This is all to say that I'm sure Sarah would help us all out.

She'd help Nate by having the baby today.

Or help me out by holding out until the 22nd.

And of course she'd help her husband out by helping him uphold his end of the bet.

Sure, she'll miss baby Sponge after his or her 8th birthday, but Sarah's that type of wonderful.

Leaves Be Gone

Lowlights and highlights from our road clean-up day with Morganton TAASC:

*The 16 year old "project manager" saying to a 12 year old, "Do you think you're too pretty to work? I beg to differ."

*One of the older high school kids eating the best things out of one of our 8th grader's lunch.

*Finishing the entire project.

*Spending the day outside after a night of camping in chilly air.

*Talking with Freya, who is one of my favorite Asheville TAASC kids.

She is spunky, honest, and thoughtful; I enjoyed hearing about the Key School students at the Carolina Day School being drilled in Scrabble; her dogs, cats, and brothers; and her love of backpacking.

* Seeing our quirky/kind/slightly lazy kids around the cliquey/macho/cool Morganton kids.

* Finally, meeting a little kid who is called "Subway" because, in his words, "My dad owns all of the Subway restaurants in Burke County!"

Pato

We have a TAASC trip tomorrow (working with the Morganton "old school" kids) cleaning out ditches in the national forest and camping. The founder of TAASC (who is "old school" himself) suggested tools for our 12-15 year olds to bring such as rakes and leaf blowers with ear protection. I told them about the trip and gear list at our weekly meeting tonight.

One of them gasped, "You mean we get to bring power tools?"

I think I replied something like, "We can do that when we go on trips with the Morganton kids."

(I'm trying to get them to like those other kids before we even meet, obviously to prevent gang wars between Asheville and Morganton.)

**Sidenote that will hopefully make sense a bit later: Pato means duck in Spanish. When I was studying in Venezuela, my nine-year old host sister made me some pictures of different animals. I think she thought that I needed all of the help I could get. Below is the pato picture. She put a pata (girl duck) on there, too. She signed the top, Alice Rojas, but it's a bit hard to see.

I think conejo, which means rabbit, could also be a bad word if you call someone it. I don't know if pato is also a bad word, but I think it should mean something like wimp or wuss.***

If so, when those sweet TAASC kids asked about the power tools (or when they complain about minor discomfort), I'd add, "Don't be such patos! What will the Morganton kids think?" A little cool kid peer pressure is great. I read it in some education textbook somewhere.

Later in that meeting, we started watching Touching the Void. As we were talking about crampons, ice axes, and summiting "alpine style" throughout the movie, I asked some of them if they'd like to do a mountaineering trip. They replied, "Do you see how cold that is?!" As if to say, "Why would we do that when we can sit here and watch a movie about it?" Ahh, the fine art of armchair mountaineering. Be careful of the altitude sickness, patos.

This movie is rated R for the language. Don't worry, parents, I sat with my hand on the mute buttom for when one of the climbers falls and his leg snaps. He drops the f-bomb a lot. But really, parents, would you be screaming, "Dang! Ouch!" if the bottom part of your leg rammed up into the top part?

When the kids saw the rating, one of them asked, "Are you allowed to show us this?"

I replied, "Whateva, I do what I want." As long as they don't tell their folks about it...

I'm a pato, too.

Here are some more of my host sister's pictures. The conejo isn't the bad conejo. Sapo, which means toad, is on the same picture with the girl and boy frogs. I think sapo should mean sucker... like someone who is easily duped. She even drew the sapo to look like a sucka. These are all rated G:

Freedom Writers. Freedom Watching (bad movies).

The other day, my mom told me how she was watching Freedom Writers on tv (most likely while folding laundry or going through months worth of newspapers that she hasn't had time to read...).

Supposedly, Dad watched it for a minute and commented about how histrionic it was. I had to laugh when I heard this because I got sucked into watching it while staying at a friend's house. I pretended like I was doing other things and too busy to watch, but then I'd always cycle back to ask for an update. I used to do this all of the time when my sister would watch movies like Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. She'd ask, "Katie, why don't you just watch it?" And then I'd pretend that I was above it.

To quell this pattern of snobbery, when my friend asked, "Katie, why don't you just watch Freedom Writers with me?" I answered, "Okay, but just for a minute." He snapped this photo of me 45 minutes later:
I think my picture explains how I wasn't really into that movie at all... just walking by the room on my way to read some Milton...

Although it doesn't make my top movies of the century, it was mildly entertaining. Actually, when I walk by little cubbie holes in Asheville, I wonder if some at-risk teenager is writing in a notebook in there. There aren't that many little cubbies that I've found, though.

I wonder if my mom could catch my brilliant dad with an expression like that one while watching Save the Last Dance or The First Wives Club. It's good to put your brow a little lower at times. But, as my good friend from college pointed out, a little snobbery is important in life. It's like getting the best icing on your cinnamon roll.

Fire

I just put a load of laundry into the drier and I'm about to go to bed. As a result, my paranoia about the house burning down is kicking in. Once or twice, I have had to drive back to my house when I was worrying that I left a candle burning, a kettle on the stove, or the drier running. I know that normal people might not do this. I think my mom actually leaves the drier on when she leaves the house. What if it gets too hot, though?


This year, two fires have had an effect on my life. First, my aunt and uncle's house burned down from a lightning strike that hit the electrical panel. Luckily, they weren't home and none of their animals were harmed. However, they lost their home and everything inside of it including photos and family heirlooms.

Second, the Linville Gorge was on fire for several weeks last Spring. As a point of reference, the photo on the top of the page is Table Rock, which sits on the east side of the Linville Gorge. Because the North Carolina Outward Bound basecamp is below Table Rock, our home was threatened when the dry season and a series of lightning storms combined to set the pines in the gorge on fire. I was actually instructing a course when the first of several fires exploded in the Linville Gorge. Before that course, I had never seen the sky rain ashes.


It was immediately after the course that we had to evacuate the basecamp for the first time that summer. Unlike the sudden destruction of my aunt and uncle's house, this fire slowly moved towards us. Still, we waited as it moved towards us and hoped that the wind would stop blowing it up the ridges and the rain would dampen it.

As the fire moved closer, we had to load vans and cars with Outward Bound pictures, historical documents, and our own personal items to evacuate the basecamp. At the time, I had half of my belongings in the cook's cabin at the basecamp. He had everything he valued there. As a result, I packed my Annie Dillard books in his truck and helped him load (in this order):


* his musical equiptment
* his cds
* his photos
* and anything else that would fit... I don't think my love letters made the cut.




It was strange to have time to decide what to bring as this fire approached.

This is a picture from Table Rock of the fire moving in the distance. A friend described it as little explosions of pine on the far rim of the gorge.


After it fizzled and the next fires of the season threatened our base, the instructors going into the field were told to put anything they wanted saved on their beds. As I sit here and consider the drier, I think I know what I would save.

I wonder, dear reader, what would you save?

Oh, Baby

(In case you didn't read the previous post, this is about one of our TAASC adventures...)

One of our 12 year olds, Adrian, had to tend to his baby, CJ, during one of our weekend trips. He wasn’t a pre-teen dad; in fact, the home economics assignment that landed him the tot-watching gig was designed to thwart teenage pregnancies.

Unlike the bag of flour that I had to carry for health class, these five-pound dolls cry loudly when face down and at random times. To quiet the baby, students need to turn the key in a slot in the baby’s back and hold it there until she cooed, which was anywhere from five to fifteen minutes.

Adrian’s teacher thought about some ways kids would avoid doing the assignment. For instance, she attached his key to his wrist with a bracelet—like the ones people wear at concerts or festivals—that could only be removed by cutting. And for the students that might be tempted to leave the crying baby in the trunk of a car or in a closet for the weekend, she would grade him based on an electronic tally in the baby, which shows how many times he neglected or rough handled the child.

While my once-in-a-lifetime Outward Bound students wouldn’t bring a baby on course, a once-per-month Asheville TAASC student would not question bringing baby CJ (who was originally named “Lefty”) camping with us for the cold October weekend. CJ donned a smile with her onesie while the other students huddled in their down jackets. Like Adrian, CJ sported a bandana and a quiet, calm demeanor. Unlike Adrian, CJ cried often.

On the second morning, Adrian rolled out of his tent and said, “She woke me up at 12, 3, and 6 this morning. My arm was so cold when I had to hold that key.” CJ was fine in her onesie, though.

When it was time to take down the tents, Adrian’s tent-mate, Jules, complained, “Adrian, you need to help me with this. I’ve been doing everything around here!”

Adrian replied, “I need to take care of the baby! Just chill!”

I could hear that home ec teacher admonishing, “Right here, you see, is an important lesson. Even if you think you are in love with your boyfriends or girlfriends, it’s not easy running a household and raising a baby together.”

We went on the Outward Bound ropes course that day and CJ didn’t have the appropriate helmet to go up into the course, so she had to stay on the ground. Adrian went up and trusted someone on the ground to watch his kiddo. All was fine until he was about 60 feet up on a difficult element called the grapevine. Basically, you walk across a cable (while clipped in with short ropes called lobster claws). To help you balance, there are short ropes that hang vertically down from a top cable. They are spread out thirds, so as the first rope is coming to the end, you can reach out and hopefully grab the second one… (I had a great picture of this with a linebacker trying to reach for the second one, but it wouldn't copy for some reason...).


Here's a real photo of it. This person was clipped in to the top cable with lobster claws, but fell and is trying to get back on the bottom cable. He was balancing by holding onto those vertical ropes to get across. (This may be foreshadowing Adrian's story...)

Okay, so CJ was on the ground and Adrian was in the sky (concentrating, by the way). Check. About halfway across, CJ started wailing and Adrian fell. (See picture above.) His lobster claws caught him of course, but he was below the bottom cable and needed to pull himself back up on a wobbly cable that was 60 feet up and suspended between telephone poles.

At this point, the kids on the ground were yelling, “Adrian, we can get CJ up to you!” They decided to hoist her up with a rope that I had attached to my little platform on a telephone pole at the end of the grapevine; I had it there to haul up my small pack of water and snacks while I sat in the high observation seat. (I'm actually in that picture, on the upper righthand side...)

Happily, the kids got to practice their knots with this exercise and tied an excellent noose onto the baby’s neck. (Relax… we don’t really teach them nooses… and if we did we’d teach them much more effective ones than they tied on little CJ…jk.)

They did tie the rope around her neck, though, which worked well for hauling her up to the platform. That baby cried so much that I felt tempted to drop her right back down to the ground. jk. When Adrian finally got over to me, he wrapped his arms around the telephone pole and turned the key in CJ’s back. Although he looked exhausted, he still managed to say, “It’s alright, CJ. Daddy’s here.”

Back Again. For Real?

So, I won't tell you all that I'm writing on my blog until I actually start being consistent. After reading some fabulous blogs lately (mainly, tinytinbird and stupidmommy), I know how addicted I get.

If those folks even skip one day of posting, I don't know what to do with myself. I become obsessed with checking, thinking, "Maybe NOW they have something up there..." I just need to know what's going on in their lives.

So, although no one probably cares about this little lost blog that I've abandoned, I can't promise to start up for real and then flake on it. It will get started. Just a bit of time. For now, I'm going to post a piece that I wrote last year about Asheville TAASC.

Just so you know, Asheville TAASC is a program that builds character development in kids ages 8-18 through adventure and service adventures. More on that later.