Well, one of those quintessential Maine happenings just happened: I was sitting at my computer when I noticed out the window that overlooks my tiny front yard and the parking area for my house and the house next door (not the noisy-trucks-and-mysterious-trailer house, but the every-year-there's-somebody-new-living-there house) that one of the cars from next door seemed to be posed at the very edge of its parking space, lights blazing (it was 4:30, so dark). "Coming in or going out?" I said out loud, and then, "If it's out, that's a big mistake." Since we're in the middle of our first major snow storm of the season, that has gone on all day and actually enabled me to close the library early, and take a nice long nap this afternoon.
After about a minute I realized the fellow from next door was out there with a shovel. So, o.k., whether going or coming they were obviously having trouble getting out, or in. I hesitated about a millisecond. Not because I didn't want to help -- that's the knee jerk Maine response, perhaps even, if we give our humanity half a chance, the knee-jerk human response: the weather has got someone trapped, you go try to help. No, my hesitation was because I won-dered if, by the time I got the boots, the coat, the gloves on and got out there, he'd have already taken care of the problem. But then I went ahead and put on the boots, the coat, the gloves, grabbed the shovel on my tiny front porch and walked up the slope.
Sure enough, my as-yet-nameless neighbor's wife had been trying to pull into the space without their having cleared it first, and was now stuck, betwixt and between. Nameless, his mother or mother-in-law who lives with them, and I proceeded to push and pull and rock the vehicle (stupid SUV) back out into the street, then Nameless and I proceeded to clear the space. I couldn't have kept this up long, but with the two of us doing it it wasn't too bad. We all cheered when we stood back and Mrs. Nameless managed to pull into the narrow space (between their other SUV and their smaller car [three people, three cars; this is America]). "You may not be able to get out," I called to the dark window, "But you're in." "I'm home!" she chirped. And they all thanked me as I made my way back across my snowy yard to my house.
I'm sure similar scenarios have been repeated all over New England, and the upper Midwest, during this storm. Not only do you get a good feeling from helping someone, you get the satisfaction of overcoming a difficulty, solving a problem, and doing it with others makes it that much more satisfying. And why is that? I guess because we really are social creatures...
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
If you don't like the weather, wait a minute...
Definitely freaky weather. On Thursday it got up to 64 degrees here in mid-central Maine, breaking the former record of 55 degrees for Dec. 3rd. People were coming into the library exclaiming "It's like spring out there!"
The heretofore unknown Jennifer Sporzynski of Portland made herself famous, at least for 15 minutes, with her quote, issued to a reporter while sitting on a park bench in the sun: "It's not right. It's December. It's supposed to be snowing. I like warm weather," she went on to say," but not in December."
While I think most Mainers were delighted with the balmy day (which developed only after an early morning of high winds and rain), we all knew it was weird.
So today Jennifer, and the rest of us, got your more typical Maine-in-December weather. It was overcast and distinctly nippy this morning when I went out to mail some Christmas cards, and buy some more. Then late this afternoon as I was making my second trip to the post office in Augusta to mail cards (I have friends who celebrate Hanukkah, rather than Christmas, and friends overseas, so those cards needed to go out), I suddenly saw what looked like snow rushing at my vehicle, illuminated by the headlights. The forecast had said possibility of rain or snow, and this stuff had too much substance to be rain.
Well, I couldn't complain. Except for that mini snow storm we had a month ago, on Nov. 6th (see Note of Nov. 8), we have had no snow at all; indeed, for much of November it was unusually mild. Friends and family living in the south would say, are you freezing yet, and I would have to say no, indeed, it's usually been in the upper 40s, even in the 50s. But I just got up from one of those two-hour naps that are one of my luxuries on a weekend (and generally result in my then being able to sit at the computer writing until one o'clock in the morning), and when I passed the kitchen window whose blinds I keep cracked so that I can see the light in my next-door neighbors windows, so I won't feel so cut off from the world, I noticed that the ground was white. I then lifted the curtain of the other kitchen window, which gives a view of my large back yard, and sure enough, winter had arrived. Not with a vengeance -- my guess is there isn't more than an inch -- but I just checked the weather, and we could get 2-4 inches overnight. Hello, winter.
Although, with global warming, you never know.
The heretofore unknown Jennifer Sporzynski of Portland made herself famous, at least for 15 minutes, with her quote, issued to a reporter while sitting on a park bench in the sun: "It's not right. It's December. It's supposed to be snowing. I like warm weather," she went on to say," but not in December."
While I think most Mainers were delighted with the balmy day (which developed only after an early morning of high winds and rain), we all knew it was weird.
So today Jennifer, and the rest of us, got your more typical Maine-in-December weather. It was overcast and distinctly nippy this morning when I went out to mail some Christmas cards, and buy some more. Then late this afternoon as I was making my second trip to the post office in Augusta to mail cards (I have friends who celebrate Hanukkah, rather than Christmas, and friends overseas, so those cards needed to go out), I suddenly saw what looked like snow rushing at my vehicle, illuminated by the headlights. The forecast had said possibility of rain or snow, and this stuff had too much substance to be rain.
Well, I couldn't complain. Except for that mini snow storm we had a month ago, on Nov. 6th (see Note of Nov. 8), we have had no snow at all; indeed, for much of November it was unusually mild. Friends and family living in the south would say, are you freezing yet, and I would have to say no, indeed, it's usually been in the upper 40s, even in the 50s. But I just got up from one of those two-hour naps that are one of my luxuries on a weekend (and generally result in my then being able to sit at the computer writing until one o'clock in the morning), and when I passed the kitchen window whose blinds I keep cracked so that I can see the light in my next-door neighbors windows, so I won't feel so cut off from the world, I noticed that the ground was white. I then lifted the curtain of the other kitchen window, which gives a view of my large back yard, and sure enough, winter had arrived. Not with a vengeance -- my guess is there isn't more than an inch -- but I just checked the weather, and we could get 2-4 inches overnight. Hello, winter.
Although, with global warming, you never know.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
If you give a man a fish...
At this time of giving, I'm enclosing part of an electronic newsletter I receive from the organization Working Villages International, a non-profit group dedicated to "teaching a man how to fish," i.e., helping people in undeveloped parts of the world to become more self-reliant, by helping them establish sustainable local "industry." They have accomplished amazing things in one part of a very dangerous place (Congo), giving the people there practical goals, the means for reaching them, and hope. A truly worthy cause. The link to their web site is in my list of Interesting Links. You don't have to give; just reading about what they're trying to do, and have thus far accom-plished, is fascinating.
"2009 has marked substantial growth for Working Villages Inter-national, both in terms of outreach and in terms of program develop-ment at our Ruzizi Valley Project in the Democratic Republic of Congo. We feel very fortunate as we look back over the past year.
The year started off with a bang, as we were able to fulfill the generosity of numerous donors and put our new rice huller into full production. The rice huller can process over 160 tons of rice a month, which enabled us to process not only our own rice, but also the rice of several thousand small farmers in the surrounding area. This had a dramatic effect, as the farmers were now being paid significantly more for their rice. Since farmers are now guaranteed a good value, more people are growing rice.
The importance of increased rice production became clear this year when a white fly infestation came through central Africa and destroyed the cassava crop, an important staple of the local diet. In the past, such blights have caused widespread starvation, but our rice program meant that local farmers produced enough rice to prevent famine in our area. Our Project Manager, Fiston Malago, is now growing various resistant strains of cassava. In the meantime, our program has ensured that the people of the Ruzizi Valley have a stable source of food.
Our agricultural production has exploded this year, from about 50,000 pounds of rice per month in January to about 100,000 pounds of rice per month in August. In August we also harvested 220,000 pounds of corn, and large amounts of seasonal produce such as cabbage, beans, melon, squash, eggplant, cucumber, lemons, tomatoes, lettuce, and onions. Our staff has stayed at about 600 people since 2008, but our crop production has greatly increased. We are producing more than twice as much food as last year because the labor originally used for infrastructure improvements, such as clearing fields and digging irrigation, is now focused on crop production. The massive food surplus and our large staff have both acted as stabilizing forces in the region, as there is now a consistent source of both food and work.
One of the most exciting projects of 2009 came as a byproduct of our rice production. The small husk around each grain of rice is inedible, and difficult to compost or burn. We were able to obtain a design for a rice hull stove which would burn the hulls by creating an intense updraft. During our summer trip to the Ruzizi Project, WVI's black-smiths expertly built a rice hull stove, and everyone cheered as the previously incombustible rice hulls burst into flame and boiled a pot of water. This stove will have a dramatic effect on our reforestation efforts in the valley, by reducing the need for firewood in cookfires. By the time we left, Hortense and Toiye, two of the ladies in the kitchen, were already making delicious meals with the new stove.
The July trip to Congo was a success on many fronts. Alex was able to oversee the ox training, and the animals had their first session in a yoke. Our staff teamsters, Toiye and Live, were calm and masterful with the animals, and it was clear by the time we left that the oxen could be plowing as soon as we can obtain suitable equipment. This was exciting progress, as animal traction will be an important component in the next stage of village development. Toiye has been with WVI since we first started working in the Ruzizi Valley, and she is now not only an amazing cook but also an amazing teamster!
As we head into 2010, Working Villages has never been so strong. Thanks to the generosity of donors all over the world, in September we were able to raise enough money to buy a truck for the Ruzizi Project. This will allow our staff to transport significantly more grains and agricultural produce, eliminating crop waste and providing more food for the region. 2009 also marked an important milestone for us, as the first year that our agricultural surpluses provided enough money to pay all the monthly wages for our agricultural workers. This is a very important step forward, as it allows us to redirect our funding to the next phase of development: buildings and infra-structure construction.
This summer we completed several beautiful model houses, made of brick, tile and thatch. The houses have been a big success, and there is a big demand in the valley for more building. But there is a challenge which is currently keeping us from increasing our rate of construction: with gasoline at $12 per gallon, the cost of transporting materials from outside vendors quickly mounts up.
Our next goal, therefore, is to raise money to build kilns for brick, mortar and lime. With the cost of transportation eliminated, the kilns will enable us to produce beautiful and long-lasting buildings using local clay, sand, and lime for less than $1000 apiece. The construction of houses, barns and infrastructure will serve two purposes: not only will it provide badly needed buildings, but it will also create jobs and skilled job training in an area that has been ravaged by war. Job creation is fundamental to building more stability in the region, and we look forward to 2010 as a time when we will take some very important steps in building our village of peace.
If you would like to help us in this next step, we appreciate contri-butions of any size. You can make a secure online donation, or, if you would like to make a seasonal Gift of Peace donation in honor of a friend, you can download our Gift of Peace form. Thank you so much for your support over the past year, and have a wonderful holiday season!"
"2009 has marked substantial growth for Working Villages Inter-national, both in terms of outreach and in terms of program develop-ment at our Ruzizi Valley Project in the Democratic Republic of Congo. We feel very fortunate as we look back over the past year.
The year started off with a bang, as we were able to fulfill the generosity of numerous donors and put our new rice huller into full production. The rice huller can process over 160 tons of rice a month, which enabled us to process not only our own rice, but also the rice of several thousand small farmers in the surrounding area. This had a dramatic effect, as the farmers were now being paid significantly more for their rice. Since farmers are now guaranteed a good value, more people are growing rice.
The importance of increased rice production became clear this year when a white fly infestation came through central Africa and destroyed the cassava crop, an important staple of the local diet. In the past, such blights have caused widespread starvation, but our rice program meant that local farmers produced enough rice to prevent famine in our area. Our Project Manager, Fiston Malago, is now growing various resistant strains of cassava. In the meantime, our program has ensured that the people of the Ruzizi Valley have a stable source of food.
Our agricultural production has exploded this year, from about 50,000 pounds of rice per month in January to about 100,000 pounds of rice per month in August. In August we also harvested 220,000 pounds of corn, and large amounts of seasonal produce such as cabbage, beans, melon, squash, eggplant, cucumber, lemons, tomatoes, lettuce, and onions. Our staff has stayed at about 600 people since 2008, but our crop production has greatly increased. We are producing more than twice as much food as last year because the labor originally used for infrastructure improvements, such as clearing fields and digging irrigation, is now focused on crop production. The massive food surplus and our large staff have both acted as stabilizing forces in the region, as there is now a consistent source of both food and work.
One of the most exciting projects of 2009 came as a byproduct of our rice production. The small husk around each grain of rice is inedible, and difficult to compost or burn. We were able to obtain a design for a rice hull stove which would burn the hulls by creating an intense updraft. During our summer trip to the Ruzizi Project, WVI's black-smiths expertly built a rice hull stove, and everyone cheered as the previously incombustible rice hulls burst into flame and boiled a pot of water. This stove will have a dramatic effect on our reforestation efforts in the valley, by reducing the need for firewood in cookfires. By the time we left, Hortense and Toiye, two of the ladies in the kitchen, were already making delicious meals with the new stove.
The July trip to Congo was a success on many fronts. Alex was able to oversee the ox training, and the animals had their first session in a yoke. Our staff teamsters, Toiye and Live, were calm and masterful with the animals, and it was clear by the time we left that the oxen could be plowing as soon as we can obtain suitable equipment. This was exciting progress, as animal traction will be an important component in the next stage of village development. Toiye has been with WVI since we first started working in the Ruzizi Valley, and she is now not only an amazing cook but also an amazing teamster!
As we head into 2010, Working Villages has never been so strong. Thanks to the generosity of donors all over the world, in September we were able to raise enough money to buy a truck for the Ruzizi Project. This will allow our staff to transport significantly more grains and agricultural produce, eliminating crop waste and providing more food for the region. 2009 also marked an important milestone for us, as the first year that our agricultural surpluses provided enough money to pay all the monthly wages for our agricultural workers. This is a very important step forward, as it allows us to redirect our funding to the next phase of development: buildings and infra-structure construction.
This summer we completed several beautiful model houses, made of brick, tile and thatch. The houses have been a big success, and there is a big demand in the valley for more building. But there is a challenge which is currently keeping us from increasing our rate of construction: with gasoline at $12 per gallon, the cost of transporting materials from outside vendors quickly mounts up.
Our next goal, therefore, is to raise money to build kilns for brick, mortar and lime. With the cost of transportation eliminated, the kilns will enable us to produce beautiful and long-lasting buildings using local clay, sand, and lime for less than $1000 apiece. The construction of houses, barns and infrastructure will serve two purposes: not only will it provide badly needed buildings, but it will also create jobs and skilled job training in an area that has been ravaged by war. Job creation is fundamental to building more stability in the region, and we look forward to 2010 as a time when we will take some very important steps in building our village of peace.
If you would like to help us in this next step, we appreciate contri-butions of any size. You can make a secure online donation, or, if you would like to make a seasonal Gift of Peace donation in honor of a friend, you can download our Gift of Peace form. Thank you so much for your support over the past year, and have a wonderful holiday season!"
Monday, November 30, 2009
Last night I said these words to my girl...
This week they are again begging on public T.V. (see Note of Mar. 29 to see how I feel about that). Last night one of the programs they frequently interrupted was on rock acts that appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. Which included the Beatles, in 1964. I remember watching that show with my family, and being utterly enchanted. They were so cute. Yes, I was a Beatlemaniac. I even went to see them during their only appearance in Texas. My stepfather drove me and my stepsister all the way from San Antonio to Houston to see them. It was thrilling to watch them come bounding onto the stage, and start singing all those "great" songs ("Please please me, oh, yeah, like I please you"); but I was so disgusted by all the screaming females, who made it utterly impossible to hear more than the occasional word. I remember muttering, 'Oh, this is so stupid; why don't they shut up?!' I had actually gone there to hear them sing, not just gawk at them and scream myself hoarse. But I was part of a tiny, tiny minority.
That sort of mass hysteria really has nothing (or very little) to do with what is supposedly causing it, in this case, four cute guys with lots of energy who sang about love, but were totally non-threatening. (In another age it was a sweet-faced, skinny kid who also sang about love and was totally non-threatening, by the name of Frank Sinatra. On the other hand, in between the two phenomena was a very good-looking, overtly sexual guy with a pompadour who could possible be construed as being the tiniest bit threatening.) Whatever the supposed source, it's really a matter of mob mentality taking over, and turning other-wise sane human beings into unthinking lemmings (lead me to the nearest cliff and I'll gladly jump over, screaming all the way). I assume all kinds of books, never mind dissertations, have been written on the subject. I suppose part of it is a grabbing at the chance to let off steam, let it all hang out, toss away all the ol' inhibitions for a brief time. I'm sure I was as sexually repressed as every other girl in that giant auditorium -- after all, I was 17, but had never been on a date, never been kissed (this was actually possible for girls back in the good ol' days, even ones that weren't "dogs") -- and I certainly indulged in lots of rather vague fantasies about the Fab Four (alternating among Paul, "the cute one," George, "the quiet one," and John, "the smart one", with Ringo, "the funny one," never ringing any particular bells, for some reason). But for all my untapped sexuality, I was never the least bit tempted to scream it out. Call me unnatural.
On this same show last night we were treated to appearances by the Rolling Stones, with an astonishingly fresh-faced Mick Jagger -- my God, he's a little boy, I thought as I watched him trying to contain his bottled energy -- and ditto Eric Burton, with The Animals, who also amazed me by having a surprisingly good voice, and blues style. The kid had obviously been working hard. And neither he, nor Jagger, nor Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, nor any of the others, had that haggard, a little too much sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll look that they were all to have within ten years.
It was fun, watching them, remembering that yes, more innocent time. Had We But Known.
That sort of mass hysteria really has nothing (or very little) to do with what is supposedly causing it, in this case, four cute guys with lots of energy who sang about love, but were totally non-threatening. (In another age it was a sweet-faced, skinny kid who also sang about love and was totally non-threatening, by the name of Frank Sinatra. On the other hand, in between the two phenomena was a very good-looking, overtly sexual guy with a pompadour who could possible be construed as being the tiniest bit threatening.) Whatever the supposed source, it's really a matter of mob mentality taking over, and turning other-wise sane human beings into unthinking lemmings (lead me to the nearest cliff and I'll gladly jump over, screaming all the way). I assume all kinds of books, never mind dissertations, have been written on the subject. I suppose part of it is a grabbing at the chance to let off steam, let it all hang out, toss away all the ol' inhibitions for a brief time. I'm sure I was as sexually repressed as every other girl in that giant auditorium -- after all, I was 17, but had never been on a date, never been kissed (this was actually possible for girls back in the good ol' days, even ones that weren't "dogs") -- and I certainly indulged in lots of rather vague fantasies about the Fab Four (alternating among Paul, "the cute one," George, "the quiet one," and John, "the smart one", with Ringo, "the funny one," never ringing any particular bells, for some reason). But for all my untapped sexuality, I was never the least bit tempted to scream it out. Call me unnatural.
On this same show last night we were treated to appearances by the Rolling Stones, with an astonishingly fresh-faced Mick Jagger -- my God, he's a little boy, I thought as I watched him trying to contain his bottled energy -- and ditto Eric Burton, with The Animals, who also amazed me by having a surprisingly good voice, and blues style. The kid had obviously been working hard. And neither he, nor Jagger, nor Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, nor any of the others, had that haggard, a little too much sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll look that they were all to have within ten years.
It was fun, watching them, remembering that yes, more innocent time. Had We But Known.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A new mystery
Remember the neighbors with the obnoxious dogs who disappeared after tearing down the fence in their back yard? They did finally resurface, after being away for most of five months. Before they moved back in, in October, they had come by a few times, for brief periods, so I knew they had not absconded to Montana. One of those times they left a very large white trailer sitting in the driveway. It looks like the sort of thing people use to transport a race car, or maybe a couple of motor cycles.
The day I came home from work and saw the trailer in the driveway, saw that the young couple was there along with some other folks (I heard voices, did not see bodies), I thought that perhaps they now really were moving out, and were going to be using the trailer to haul away their stuff. But after an hour or so of noise, mysterious bumpings both inside and outside the trailer, the voices raised in continuous discussion, Matt, Patty et al. left, leaving the trailer behind. After that they would be away for weeks at a time, occasion-ally putting in an appearance that might include an overnight stay, might not. But the mysterious trailer was always there, taking up nearly all space in the driveway.
Since they've returned, on a more or less full-time basis -- and apparently dogless -- I've noticed that the trailer is sometimes plugged in. A heavy-duty extension cord running from the house to an outlet at the bottom corner of the trailer. The only reason I can think of for hooking this trailer up to electricity is to keep it warm. But this does not look anything like a house-trailer, and nobody ever seems to go into it. Why would they be keeping it warm? O.K, come on, what's in there?
We had what I call an interesting incident right before they re-established residency. One night at around 2 a.m. I heard noises from the little back porch that is directly across from my bedroom window. I got up and cracked a blind -- there was a light on upstairs, and in the hallway, but not in the kitchen. The back porch light, that was left burning day and night for all the months Matt and Patty were away, was on, and under it stood a man in a sweatshirt, hood pulled up. He was smoking. It was possible that it was Matt, but I couldn't see his face (and I'd never seen him smoking). I also hadn't heard either of the noisy trucks arrive. I went to the living room window and looked out -- sure enough, no truck in the driveway behind the trailer, nor any other vehicle that might have brought Matt. This was all very strange.
I hesitated about calling the police, partly because I had had them out twice in one night back in the spring when I was hearing scary noises that turned out to be squirrels in the attic (Note of April 25). I could hear them saying, 'Oh, no, it's that crazy woman on Lincoln Ave. again.' But I finally did call 9-1-1 because I didn't want to be the kind of person who "doesn't want to get involved," and so ignores sus-picious circumstances. That's not being a good neighbor. And I hated to think of the young couple, whom anyone could tell were anything but rich, coming home to find their house cleaned out.
I told the police that it was possible it was the owners, but that they had been living "elsewhere" for some time, and when they did come by it was in one of their trucks, of which there was no sign.
So the police came. Not as quickly as when I had called to say I thought there was someone in my basement, but pretty darn quick. By this time the fellow on the porch had disappeared, and the lights in the house had gone off. The young policemen went all around the house, knocked on the various doors. Then they started to get in their cars and drive away! I called out to one of them, and he strolled down to my front door to tell me all the doors were locked, and no one had answered when he knocked.
"But someone could have just locked the door from the inside," I said, visualizing a couple of young hoods hunkering down inside the darkened house until the police left. The officer agreed, but said he couldn't break down the door to find out. "If the owners come home and find the house has been broken into, then I can do something," he said. He also told me that his fellow officer had talked to the neighbors on the other side, as he knew them (Small Town, USA) and they had reported that they had seen "the owner" earlier in the evening. "They may have just gone to bed." my officer said.
So, what the heck, I had done my civic duty. Back to bed.
But there was an interesting epilogue. About ten minutes after the police left, Matt's noisy truck did pull up in the driveway. It was not turned off (even though it was 2 a.m.), but left idling in that inimitable Matt/Patty way. And while I was still staring at it -- having gotten up to make sure it was what I thought it was -- the police reappeared. Yes!! I thought, when I saw the cop get out and first flash his flashlight on the license plate of the truck, then march down the driveway to the back door. I galloped back to my bedroom, and peered briefly through the blinds -- Patty was there on the porch, being questioned by the policeman. I heard him say, "Were you here earlier?" And I heard her say "Yeah," though I couldn't hear the rest of her answer (that has been one of the frustrations in any of my attempts to eavesdrop on my neighbors: I can usually hear their voices, but can't make out most of what they say.) So at least I felt vindicated with the police. Some highly unusual goings-on had been going on, but at least the perpetrators were the owners.
But hey, these guys next door are strange.
The day I came home from work and saw the trailer in the driveway, saw that the young couple was there along with some other folks (I heard voices, did not see bodies), I thought that perhaps they now really were moving out, and were going to be using the trailer to haul away their stuff. But after an hour or so of noise, mysterious bumpings both inside and outside the trailer, the voices raised in continuous discussion, Matt, Patty et al. left, leaving the trailer behind. After that they would be away for weeks at a time, occasion-ally putting in an appearance that might include an overnight stay, might not. But the mysterious trailer was always there, taking up nearly all space in the driveway.
Since they've returned, on a more or less full-time basis -- and apparently dogless -- I've noticed that the trailer is sometimes plugged in. A heavy-duty extension cord running from the house to an outlet at the bottom corner of the trailer. The only reason I can think of for hooking this trailer up to electricity is to keep it warm. But this does not look anything like a house-trailer, and nobody ever seems to go into it. Why would they be keeping it warm? O.K, come on, what's in there?
We had what I call an interesting incident right before they re-established residency. One night at around 2 a.m. I heard noises from the little back porch that is directly across from my bedroom window. I got up and cracked a blind -- there was a light on upstairs, and in the hallway, but not in the kitchen. The back porch light, that was left burning day and night for all the months Matt and Patty were away, was on, and under it stood a man in a sweatshirt, hood pulled up. He was smoking. It was possible that it was Matt, but I couldn't see his face (and I'd never seen him smoking). I also hadn't heard either of the noisy trucks arrive. I went to the living room window and looked out -- sure enough, no truck in the driveway behind the trailer, nor any other vehicle that might have brought Matt. This was all very strange.
I hesitated about calling the police, partly because I had had them out twice in one night back in the spring when I was hearing scary noises that turned out to be squirrels in the attic (Note of April 25). I could hear them saying, 'Oh, no, it's that crazy woman on Lincoln Ave. again.' But I finally did call 9-1-1 because I didn't want to be the kind of person who "doesn't want to get involved," and so ignores sus-picious circumstances. That's not being a good neighbor. And I hated to think of the young couple, whom anyone could tell were anything but rich, coming home to find their house cleaned out.
I told the police that it was possible it was the owners, but that they had been living "elsewhere" for some time, and when they did come by it was in one of their trucks, of which there was no sign.
So the police came. Not as quickly as when I had called to say I thought there was someone in my basement, but pretty darn quick. By this time the fellow on the porch had disappeared, and the lights in the house had gone off. The young policemen went all around the house, knocked on the various doors. Then they started to get in their cars and drive away! I called out to one of them, and he strolled down to my front door to tell me all the doors were locked, and no one had answered when he knocked.
"But someone could have just locked the door from the inside," I said, visualizing a couple of young hoods hunkering down inside the darkened house until the police left. The officer agreed, but said he couldn't break down the door to find out. "If the owners come home and find the house has been broken into, then I can do something," he said. He also told me that his fellow officer had talked to the neighbors on the other side, as he knew them (Small Town, USA) and they had reported that they had seen "the owner" earlier in the evening. "They may have just gone to bed." my officer said.
So, what the heck, I had done my civic duty. Back to bed.
But there was an interesting epilogue. About ten minutes after the police left, Matt's noisy truck did pull up in the driveway. It was not turned off (even though it was 2 a.m.), but left idling in that inimitable Matt/Patty way. And while I was still staring at it -- having gotten up to make sure it was what I thought it was -- the police reappeared. Yes!! I thought, when I saw the cop get out and first flash his flashlight on the license plate of the truck, then march down the driveway to the back door. I galloped back to my bedroom, and peered briefly through the blinds -- Patty was there on the porch, being questioned by the policeman. I heard him say, "Were you here earlier?" And I heard her say "Yeah," though I couldn't hear the rest of her answer (that has been one of the frustrations in any of my attempts to eavesdrop on my neighbors: I can usually hear their voices, but can't make out most of what they say.) So at least I felt vindicated with the police. Some highly unusual goings-on had been going on, but at least the perpetrators were the owners.
But hey, these guys next door are strange.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
A surfeit of heroes
There was drastic flooding in the Lake District of England recently -- global warming strikes again -- and I saw Prime Minister Gordon Brown, on BBC World News, expressing condolences to the family of a local constable who was swept to his death when a bridge he was on broke under the force of the water. The policeman had evidently detected that the bridge was not in good shape, and had been directing motorists away from using it. Gordon Brown stated that Pc Barker was a hero, performing heroically when he died. I think what PC Barker was was a traffic policeman doing his duty, who died tragically in the line of duty. I really question whether he was a "hero."
Like the word awesome, I think the word hero is vastly overused these days. Every member of the military who goes off to Iraq or Afghanistan is automatically a hero. I don't buy that. What they are are soldiers (or marines, or airmen or whatever), doing the job they were hired to do. That job is an extremely difficult, dangerous one, but it is one they signed on for (if we still had the draft -- which I'm inclined to think we should bring back -- that wouldn't, of course, be the case). I don't think doing a difficult, dangerous job that you agreed to do automatically qualifies you as a hero.
While the little paperback dictionary that sits beside my desk claims that one definition of hero is 'a man who performs brave deeds,' I'm inclined to think that the brave deeds he (or she) performs should be under particularly dire circumstances, that true heroism involves performing above and beyond the normal call of duty. The job soldiers in hot spots like Iraq and Afghanistan have calls for them to be brave virtually every single day. But that's the nature of soldiering; that's what it's all about. That and following orders, which occasionally (possibly even frequently) serves as an effective substitute for bravery. The men and women who agree to do this, possibly to the death, and then go out to these god-forsaken places where they're encumbered with hot uniforms and all this heavy equipment in 106 degree heat and do it...they should certainly be honored for their efforts, and dedication to duty, we as a nation should certainly express our gratitude whenever we can, and our tax dollars should certainly be used to insure that they receive any medical care they might need as a result of their efforts, and dedication to duty.
But we shouldn't be calling them all heroes. If everyone is a hero then no one is; the word loses meaning. And my guess is, most soldiers feel that way, too.
Like the word awesome, I think the word hero is vastly overused these days. Every member of the military who goes off to Iraq or Afghanistan is automatically a hero. I don't buy that. What they are are soldiers (or marines, or airmen or whatever), doing the job they were hired to do. That job is an extremely difficult, dangerous one, but it is one they signed on for (if we still had the draft -- which I'm inclined to think we should bring back -- that wouldn't, of course, be the case). I don't think doing a difficult, dangerous job that you agreed to do automatically qualifies you as a hero.
While the little paperback dictionary that sits beside my desk claims that one definition of hero is 'a man who performs brave deeds,' I'm inclined to think that the brave deeds he (or she) performs should be under particularly dire circumstances, that true heroism involves performing above and beyond the normal call of duty. The job soldiers in hot spots like Iraq and Afghanistan have calls for them to be brave virtually every single day. But that's the nature of soldiering; that's what it's all about. That and following orders, which occasionally (possibly even frequently) serves as an effective substitute for bravery. The men and women who agree to do this, possibly to the death, and then go out to these god-forsaken places where they're encumbered with hot uniforms and all this heavy equipment in 106 degree heat and do it...they should certainly be honored for their efforts, and dedication to duty, we as a nation should certainly express our gratitude whenever we can, and our tax dollars should certainly be used to insure that they receive any medical care they might need as a result of their efforts, and dedication to duty.
But we shouldn't be calling them all heroes. If everyone is a hero then no one is; the word loses meaning. And my guess is, most soldiers feel that way, too.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A rose by any other name...
I am fascinated by names, by the importance of names, the impor-tance humans attach to names. If we start talking to someone we don't know, we feel compelled early on to introduce ourselves, to provide that person with our name, with the expectation being that s/he in turn will provide us with a name. We become more real to one another, more substantial, once we have exchanged names.
We feel insulted if we're with someone who starts talking to someone else, and fails to introduce us. Introducing us gives us a name, at which point we cease to be invisible; we become real.
We get upset if others misspell our names. Our names represent us, stand for us; we want people to get them right. I'm not one of those Melodies with an 'i,e', I'm this particular Melody, with a 'y.' It's not Camp, it's Norman-Camp.
And it isn't just names of people that are important. We don't like feeling bad, going to the doctor because we feel bad, having all kinds of tests done, and then not being provided with a name for what's wrong with us. ("Sorry, all your tests are within the normal range." -- in other words, we haven't a clue what's wrong with you.)
People can have the wrong name. I have two friends who definitely have the wrong name, though presumably they don't think so. One is one of my oldest friends -- we go back to Accelerated English class and American Government class, sophomore year of high school -- when she was Carol. A very common name back then, along with Linda, and Judy, and Barbara, and Patricia (always called Pat, or Patty), and Diane. Names people don't give their daughters anymore. These days it's Kaitlyn or Alexis or Abigail or Isabella or Madison or Emma. (Fashions in naming also fascinate me.)
But to get back to Carol. It turns out that Carol is actually her middle name, and some years ago my friend decided to start calling herself by her first name, Martha. When this change took place we were not in touch -- we dropped out of one another's lives for many years, and then dropped back in a few years ago thanks to Classmates.com. When we reconnected I was very surprised to learn that Carol was now Martha. Martha to me is a very old-fashioned name -- I put it in with the likes of Josephine and Geraldine and Mabel, names our grand-mothers might have had. And Carol is hardly an old-fashioned girl. So I've had a hard time thinking of her as Martha, though of course I call her that...though sometimes, in emails, it will be Martha Carol, to take care of both my comfort zone, and her preferences.
Would it have been different if the switch had been the other way around, if I'd known her as Martha in our youth, and she'd then adopted Carol? Would I now be having a hard time thinking of her as Carol? Perhaps, but there's the case of my friend Meaghan, who was born Grace, and was Grace when I first knew her (she was my very first roommate, way back in Washington, D.C. about 100 years ago). Grace always hated her name, and a few decades back decided she was Meaghan, instead. I had absolutely no trouble calling her that, or thinking of her as Meaghan; the name really did seem to suit her better than the old-fashioned 'Grace.' People can have the wrong name.
There's my friend Joey. When I first met him, back in my Boston days, he was Joe. But neither name really suits him, as far as I am concerned. Joe sounds like a bruiser of a Polish stevedore; Joey sounds like a third-generation mafioso. Joey is neither; he's a slight, very bright, very funny newspaperman who has been hit by the dissolution of the newspaper industry (similar to the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII), and is filling in time uploading to his Flickr web page the many, many interesting, amusing, quirky pictures he is constantly taking. As far as I'm concerned his name should be Eric, or Elliot or maybe Terry. Something a whole lot lighter than Joe, a lot more intellectual than Joey. But Joey apparently identifies with Joey, just as I identify with Melody, and the friend-formerly-known-as-Grace identifies with Meaghan. These are our claims to who we are, and we want people to get them right. So there.
We feel insulted if we're with someone who starts talking to someone else, and fails to introduce us. Introducing us gives us a name, at which point we cease to be invisible; we become real.
We get upset if others misspell our names. Our names represent us, stand for us; we want people to get them right. I'm not one of those Melodies with an 'i,e', I'm this particular Melody, with a 'y.' It's not Camp, it's Norman-Camp.
And it isn't just names of people that are important. We don't like feeling bad, going to the doctor because we feel bad, having all kinds of tests done, and then not being provided with a name for what's wrong with us. ("Sorry, all your tests are within the normal range." -- in other words, we haven't a clue what's wrong with you.)
People can have the wrong name. I have two friends who definitely have the wrong name, though presumably they don't think so. One is one of my oldest friends -- we go back to Accelerated English class and American Government class, sophomore year of high school -- when she was Carol. A very common name back then, along with Linda, and Judy, and Barbara, and Patricia (always called Pat, or Patty), and Diane. Names people don't give their daughters anymore. These days it's Kaitlyn or Alexis or Abigail or Isabella or Madison or Emma. (Fashions in naming also fascinate me.)
But to get back to Carol. It turns out that Carol is actually her middle name, and some years ago my friend decided to start calling herself by her first name, Martha. When this change took place we were not in touch -- we dropped out of one another's lives for many years, and then dropped back in a few years ago thanks to Classmates.com. When we reconnected I was very surprised to learn that Carol was now Martha. Martha to me is a very old-fashioned name -- I put it in with the likes of Josephine and Geraldine and Mabel, names our grand-mothers might have had. And Carol is hardly an old-fashioned girl. So I've had a hard time thinking of her as Martha, though of course I call her that...though sometimes, in emails, it will be Martha Carol, to take care of both my comfort zone, and her preferences.
Would it have been different if the switch had been the other way around, if I'd known her as Martha in our youth, and she'd then adopted Carol? Would I now be having a hard time thinking of her as Carol? Perhaps, but there's the case of my friend Meaghan, who was born Grace, and was Grace when I first knew her (she was my very first roommate, way back in Washington, D.C. about 100 years ago). Grace always hated her name, and a few decades back decided she was Meaghan, instead. I had absolutely no trouble calling her that, or thinking of her as Meaghan; the name really did seem to suit her better than the old-fashioned 'Grace.' People can have the wrong name.
There's my friend Joey. When I first met him, back in my Boston days, he was Joe. But neither name really suits him, as far as I am concerned. Joe sounds like a bruiser of a Polish stevedore; Joey sounds like a third-generation mafioso. Joey is neither; he's a slight, very bright, very funny newspaperman who has been hit by the dissolution of the newspaper industry (similar to the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII), and is filling in time uploading to his Flickr web page the many, many interesting, amusing, quirky pictures he is constantly taking. As far as I'm concerned his name should be Eric, or Elliot or maybe Terry. Something a whole lot lighter than Joe, a lot more intellectual than Joey. But Joey apparently identifies with Joey, just as I identify with Melody, and the friend-formerly-known-as-Grace identifies with Meaghan. These are our claims to who we are, and we want people to get them right. So there.
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