The Lobster Coast covers the European History of (mostly) coastal Maine from earliest exploration until the present. After a fairly light and entertaining introduction, Woodward embarks upon the task of laying out the history of Maine's coast. I got the impression early on that he would spend most of his time focusing on the fishing industry - with a nod to the historical roots of Mainer's suspicion of people "from away." However, Woodward ends up all over the place by the end of the book, for example, talking about recent pushes for "smart development" to combat suburbanization and sprawl and mentioning many of the elites who summered in Maine in the past, while neglecting to discuss the strategic importance of the Maine coast during WWII and what the U.S. army did to change the character of the Maine coast during those years.
I don't recommend this book - except to Mainers who read everything they can about the Pine Tree State.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The Van-ola + I-94 + Darkness
We hit a "bump" in I-94 on our way back from Madison. It took about 10 seconds before we became VERY aware that it wasn't a bump but a skunk. We arrived home a bit later to find that our nice clean and fancy looking van-ola smells like fresh skunk. When your dog mixes with skunk, you can give him a bath in canned tomato. What do you do when your entire car has been skunked?
We left it out of the garage to air out and returned from walking the dogs to find that our entire block stinks!
We left it out of the garage to air out and returned from walking the dogs to find that our entire block stinks!
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Wisconsin + Beer + 2:30 a.m.
Why is it, I wonder, that here in Milwaukee, and, if I correctly recall, particular areas of Madison, people announce bar time and their inebriated state by randomly shouting, "Whoooooooooh!" as they make their way home at the end of the evening?
I puzzled over this for some time last night when the dulcent "Whooooooohs!" of a couple of folks walking past my house roused me, but I was unable to come up with any explanation. It's as if being drunk isn't enough fun, one has to make sure that everyone knows they are drunk and loving it. Or perhaps, with the end of the night approaching, folks are trying to reassure themselves that the evening is worth the pending cost - lying in bed with one foot on the floor to keep the room from tipping over.
At any rate, goody-two-shoes that I may be, I have been around many a drunken revelry without the Whoooooohs so I find them curious and wonder about their function.
I puzzled over this for some time last night when the dulcent "Whooooooohs!" of a couple of folks walking past my house roused me, but I was unable to come up with any explanation. It's as if being drunk isn't enough fun, one has to make sure that everyone knows they are drunk and loving it. Or perhaps, with the end of the night approaching, folks are trying to reassure themselves that the evening is worth the pending cost - lying in bed with one foot on the floor to keep the room from tipping over.
At any rate, goody-two-shoes that I may be, I have been around many a drunken revelry without the Whoooooohs so I find them curious and wonder about their function.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Book Recommendation: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
I know I am probably the last person on the planet to read Middlesex, but let me share my opinion all the same. I thought this was a good book, if a little uneven from time to time. It is the story of Callie/Cal Stephanides, who grows up as a the daughter of a successful businessman in Detroit's Greek-American community only to learn at age 14 that she is actually a phenotypical male who suffers from 5-alpha-reductase deficiency, i.e. has ambiguous genitalia.
As this is a novel, there is no indication anywhere that Eugenides read about Garfinkel's Agnes or is acquainted with the lives of the Reimer twins, however, Cal's story certainly does echo reading I've done elsewhere both in terms of typical responses to ambiguous genitalia and in terms of the effort required to learn how to "do gender." In fact, Dr. Luce is so similar to Colapinto's Dr. Money that I wonder if Eugenides should make his fiction resemble a real character a little less.
At any rate, what I liked most about Middlesex is the fact that Cal's biography, which hinges squarely on his hermaphroditism, is rooted in history and depends just as much upon world politics as it does upon his parents' genes. Cal's claim is not just, "This is who I am, this is how I was made." It's, "I am what history has yielded. I have only scratched the surface of the myriad of actions that created a world which led to the production of me." I think this is an important, if subtle, change in the typical narrative AND I like it.
As for imbalance - Eugenides' style keeps Cal/Callie in the forefront at all times and I think this may do him a disservice because it undermines his efforts to develop his other characters. Many primary characters go undeveloped the entire novel and, when he tries to elaborate upon others, he either awkwardly departs from Cal's narration or Cal apologies to the reader for laying out the thoughts and experiences of others but then goes on to do so all the same.
On the whole, however, a good read.
As this is a novel, there is no indication anywhere that Eugenides read about Garfinkel's Agnes or is acquainted with the lives of the Reimer twins, however, Cal's story certainly does echo reading I've done elsewhere both in terms of typical responses to ambiguous genitalia and in terms of the effort required to learn how to "do gender." In fact, Dr. Luce is so similar to Colapinto's Dr. Money that I wonder if Eugenides should make his fiction resemble a real character a little less.
At any rate, what I liked most about Middlesex is the fact that Cal's biography, which hinges squarely on his hermaphroditism, is rooted in history and depends just as much upon world politics as it does upon his parents' genes. Cal's claim is not just, "This is who I am, this is how I was made." It's, "I am what history has yielded. I have only scratched the surface of the myriad of actions that created a world which led to the production of me." I think this is an important, if subtle, change in the typical narrative AND I like it.
As for imbalance - Eugenides' style keeps Cal/Callie in the forefront at all times and I think this may do him a disservice because it undermines his efforts to develop his other characters. Many primary characters go undeveloped the entire novel and, when he tries to elaborate upon others, he either awkwardly departs from Cal's narration or Cal apologies to the reader for laying out the thoughts and experiences of others but then goes on to do so all the same.
On the whole, however, a good read.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
summer madness
Madison is quite beautiful in the late spring - when the hordes of students have departed and the stench of scooter exhaust is replaced by the beautiful smell of rosa rugosas and lilacs. The trees provide a green canopy that filters the sunlight.
Ahhh... what a beautiful day!
Ahhh... what a beautiful day!
Monday, May 23, 2005
ersatz
I have so much work to do but I need to procrastinate a little bit and tell you about meeting my dad's new wife and what was noteworthy about seeing the two of them together.
My sister was in town with me. Friday night we went out to buy decorations for the baby shower. After that we went to dinner. We returned to the island on a late ferry and were surprised to see my dad and his new wife snuggled up on the couch watching TV. We expected to beat them home because Dad said that Mary wasn't leaving Connecticut until about 6. We thought that, with the weekend traffic to Maine from "points south," Mary would be lucky to catch the last ferry at 11:30. At any rate, she and dad were watching "Phantom of the Opera." They paused it and jumped right up and Mary hugged us both - except in my case she gave me a one armed hug and used the other hand to grab my belly. So, it started off feeling even more awkward than it would have if Mary had been a little more reserved, but such is life.
I watched the two of them, Mary and my dad, all weekend. In the end I still don't know what I think about Mary. My dad is clearly happy with her which is great to see. However, she is one of those people with a smile that is a little too bright, a voice a little too squeaky and cheerful, and a simpery- sweet demeanor that makes her seem a little unbelievable. You know what I mean? I know that she was likely nervous and trying really hard but, in my mind, she came across as one of those people who is just as likely to sport that tremendous smile when they are breaking your heart as when they are making your day. The issue is, then, is she mostly nice when no one is looking?
Anyway, I feel fine about her despite this reservation about genuineness. In the end the thing that ended up bothering me was my dad's behavior.
Although Mary and my mom are very different in many ways (Mary dresses stylishly, wears make-up, does her hair and nails, and doesn't read to name a few things), they share some characteristics such as having a lot of energy and motivation. My dad clearly counts on Mary to come in and get him organized, washed, and fed.
You must understand, my dad hasn't done a load of laundry since 1969. Once my mother died, he began bringing all his laundry to the cleaners. As far as I know, my dad has never mowed the lawn unprompted, his house is an absolute shambles both in terms of cleanliness and maintenance because he refuses to clean and he won't "maintain" without someone to direct him. My dad has probably shelled out thousands of dollars in late charges since my mom died because he just tosses all the mail into a big pile and goes through it every four or five weeks paying bills in no particular order. This is just a sample of the extent to which my dad doesn't do for himself.
So, I guess I was disappointed when I saw my dad sitting in front of the TV while Mary sorted his bills, waged war on the ant infestation in the kitchen, loaded a shopping cart with all dad's dirty laundry that she would take with her to Connecticut to wash, dry, iron and bring back on her next visit, prompted him to estimate how much paint would be required to repaint the outside trim and to change the oil in the lawnmower, and made a to-do list of the chores she expected him to see to before her next visit.
This seemed all the more disturbing to me when Mary told me that she doesn't clean her own house (she had a house cleaner that comes in every 2 weeks), Dad refused to let her even see his house before she said, "I do," and that the accumulated dust and filth in my dad's house has so aggravated her allergies that her doctor has prescribed new allergy medication, including an inhaler, for her. She excuses all of this by referencing a sob-story Dad apparently concocted about how the mess in the house is not his, but his kids' and about how he got stuck with an old broken-down house that only gets worse because it is ill-treated by his kids. Of course, in the rendition I heard, it was most specifically my older brother and sister-in-law that have so abused my father's house. I was a little shocked to hear from Mary negative things, some exaggerated and others patently false, my dad said about my siblings. I responded, "Believe me, most of this mess is his." She said, "No, he wouldn't leave a mess like this." To which I replied, "Watch out for him, Mary. He is a great guy but he's sneaky. Make sure that you make him pull his own weight."
And ever since I have wondered if my dad is more phony than Mary's smile.
My sister was in town with me. Friday night we went out to buy decorations for the baby shower. After that we went to dinner. We returned to the island on a late ferry and were surprised to see my dad and his new wife snuggled up on the couch watching TV. We expected to beat them home because Dad said that Mary wasn't leaving Connecticut until about 6. We thought that, with the weekend traffic to Maine from "points south," Mary would be lucky to catch the last ferry at 11:30. At any rate, she and dad were watching "Phantom of the Opera." They paused it and jumped right up and Mary hugged us both - except in my case she gave me a one armed hug and used the other hand to grab my belly. So, it started off feeling even more awkward than it would have if Mary had been a little more reserved, but such is life.
I watched the two of them, Mary and my dad, all weekend. In the end I still don't know what I think about Mary. My dad is clearly happy with her which is great to see. However, she is one of those people with a smile that is a little too bright, a voice a little too squeaky and cheerful, and a simpery- sweet demeanor that makes her seem a little unbelievable. You know what I mean? I know that she was likely nervous and trying really hard but, in my mind, she came across as one of those people who is just as likely to sport that tremendous smile when they are breaking your heart as when they are making your day. The issue is, then, is she mostly nice when no one is looking?
Anyway, I feel fine about her despite this reservation about genuineness. In the end the thing that ended up bothering me was my dad's behavior.
Although Mary and my mom are very different in many ways (Mary dresses stylishly, wears make-up, does her hair and nails, and doesn't read to name a few things), they share some characteristics such as having a lot of energy and motivation. My dad clearly counts on Mary to come in and get him organized, washed, and fed.
You must understand, my dad hasn't done a load of laundry since 1969. Once my mother died, he began bringing all his laundry to the cleaners. As far as I know, my dad has never mowed the lawn unprompted, his house is an absolute shambles both in terms of cleanliness and maintenance because he refuses to clean and he won't "maintain" without someone to direct him. My dad has probably shelled out thousands of dollars in late charges since my mom died because he just tosses all the mail into a big pile and goes through it every four or five weeks paying bills in no particular order. This is just a sample of the extent to which my dad doesn't do for himself.
So, I guess I was disappointed when I saw my dad sitting in front of the TV while Mary sorted his bills, waged war on the ant infestation in the kitchen, loaded a shopping cart with all dad's dirty laundry that she would take with her to Connecticut to wash, dry, iron and bring back on her next visit, prompted him to estimate how much paint would be required to repaint the outside trim and to change the oil in the lawnmower, and made a to-do list of the chores she expected him to see to before her next visit.
This seemed all the more disturbing to me when Mary told me that she doesn't clean her own house (she had a house cleaner that comes in every 2 weeks), Dad refused to let her even see his house before she said, "I do," and that the accumulated dust and filth in my dad's house has so aggravated her allergies that her doctor has prescribed new allergy medication, including an inhaler, for her. She excuses all of this by referencing a sob-story Dad apparently concocted about how the mess in the house is not his, but his kids' and about how he got stuck with an old broken-down house that only gets worse because it is ill-treated by his kids. Of course, in the rendition I heard, it was most specifically my older brother and sister-in-law that have so abused my father's house. I was a little shocked to hear from Mary negative things, some exaggerated and others patently false, my dad said about my siblings. I responded, "Believe me, most of this mess is his." She said, "No, he wouldn't leave a mess like this." To which I replied, "Watch out for him, Mary. He is a great guy but he's sneaky. Make sure that you make him pull his own weight."
And ever since I have wondered if my dad is more phony than Mary's smile.
Goodbye, Island Home!
It was a difficult trip to the island this last time. I spent a couple of days helping Dad and Mary clean out the house and I found all kinds of interesting things including my mother's wedding dress, which I had never laid eyes on before, and my baby book. I took some things that I wanted, like the wedding dress and the Children's Literary Classics that I loved reading when I was young, some things that my mother told me to look out for before she died including a box of her own childhood letters and photos and my grandmother's Hummel figurines, and some things that I just wanted to save from the dump, mainly photos and all of my dad's short stories. My father is an excellent writer.
That van-ola of ours came in handy pretty quick. There was no way that I was going to get all my shower gifts and all the stuff from the house back to Milwaukee. Jason and the dogs drove out for a few days vacation and then we all trekked home in the vanola.
My last morning on the island was strange one. I fully expect that my dad will sell the house before I return to Maine, probably next summer. So, even though it will still be my island, it will be different. I spent the last morning visiting some of my old haunts, like the cemetery at the bottom of the hill where I spent many hours napping amid the gravestones (oldest c.1690), telling ghost stories with friends, and engaging in various other teenage pursuits.
brackett cemetery
That van-ola of ours came in handy pretty quick. There was no way that I was going to get all my shower gifts and all the stuff from the house back to Milwaukee. Jason and the dogs drove out for a few days vacation and then we all trekked home in the vanola.
My last morning on the island was strange one. I fully expect that my dad will sell the house before I return to Maine, probably next summer. So, even though it will still be my island, it will be different. I spent the last morning visiting some of my old haunts, like the cemetery at the bottom of the hill where I spent many hours napping amid the gravestones (oldest c.1690), telling ghost stories with friends, and engaging in various other teenage pursuits.
brackett cemetery
Jason and I took the dogs down to the beach at the bottom of the hill too. I lived on this beach in the summer. My mother set three rules. The first rule restricted swimming for 20 minutes after eating (this rules was s big pain because, as we were watchless, we needed to ask someone on the beach what time it was when we ate and then we needed to keep asking folks what time it was until 20 minutes was up). The second was that you could go swimming once the air temperature hit 70 degrees. The water rarely exceeded 65 and was more likely to be colder than that. So, the other rule was that we had to come out of the water to warm up for a bit when the tips of our fingers and/or our lips began to turn blue. By age 7 or 8 my brothers and I visited the beach on our own. We were adept swimmers - I began swimming so early that I don't even remember learning how.
sandy beach, facing whitehead passage and the open Atlantic.
It is important to me that my children get to know the island. I don't expect them to be islanders too, but I want them to have memories of the tides and this beach, to nurse barnacle cuts, to find jellyfish on the shore and learn, over time, that it is just as much fun to return them to the water as it is to skewer them with driftwood. I want my kids to appreciate 20 minutes of quiet or visiting with neighbors on the ferry. I want them to know island kids by name and feel, even after not seeing them for 15 years, that they are more than just acquaintances.
Anyway, I've returned to the Midwest.
sandy beach, facing whitehead passage and the open Atlantic.
It is important to me that my children get to know the island. I don't expect them to be islanders too, but I want them to have memories of the tides and this beach, to nurse barnacle cuts, to find jellyfish on the shore and learn, over time, that it is just as much fun to return them to the water as it is to skewer them with driftwood. I want my kids to appreciate 20 minutes of quiet or visiting with neighbors on the ferry. I want them to know island kids by name and feel, even after not seeing them for 15 years, that they are more than just acquaintances.
Anyway, I've returned to the Midwest.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
How pregnant do you have to be?
In the last couple of days here in Maine, I've received 2 (TWO) spontaneous acknowledgements of my preggo state. So, apparently, I have finally reached the point at which those who know me but do not know that I am with child are certain that their recognition of my substantial belly will not be a misplaced reference to weight gain that is not associated with child-bearing.
In case you were wondering, if you're a big girl like me you apparently need to be this big to be seen as pregnant beyond a reasonable doubt.
about this pregnant
Incidentally, I have also experienced my first unsolicited belly touching. My 94-year-old Great-Aunt Edna copped a feel at the baby shower and my dad's new wife can't seem to keep her hands off me.
In case you were wondering, if you're a big girl like me you apparently need to be this big to be seen as pregnant beyond a reasonable doubt.
about this pregnant
Incidentally, I have also experienced my first unsolicited belly touching. My 94-year-old Great-Aunt Edna copped a feel at the baby shower and my dad's new wife can't seem to keep her hands off me.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
In Maine
I'm out in the field right now. A great deal is going on but I don't particularly feel like blogging about it all. Let me just say a few things:
1. My whining about a baby shower with my family was unwarranted. They threw a joint shower for my sister-in-law and myself. Basically, they had me running around to prepare my own shower. It was a lot of fun.
2. I met Mary. I don't really have much to say about that.
3. I found my mother's wedding dress when I was cleaning out my dad's house.
4. I found a couple of really great resources to help with my dissertation. I also have a couple of exciting meetings set up.
1. My whining about a baby shower with my family was unwarranted. They threw a joint shower for my sister-in-law and myself. Basically, they had me running around to prepare my own shower. It was a lot of fun.
2. I met Mary. I don't really have much to say about that.
3. I found my mother's wedding dress when I was cleaning out my dad's house.
4. I found a couple of really great resources to help with my dissertation. I also have a couple of exciting meetings set up.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Van-ina to Van-ola
We need a new car. We’ve been putting it off for a while. The thing is, our current car, the van-ina, is too small for a baby and 2 dogs even if it wasn’t on its last legs. Seriously, I am impressed every time I turn the key in the ignition and my little van-ina shudders to life.
my little van-ina
my little van-ina
So, what kind of car to buy? I am a big advocate of the station wagon – roomy enough for the lot of us and you can keep the dogs in the back away from the kid. However, Jason correctly points out that a station wagon is great until we need to go anywhere overnight – there will be insufficient space for all of us and all of the gear we need to take with us. It has to be a mini-van, he claims.
I agree and then I find myself completely repulsed by the idea of owning a mini-van. It’s not that I have a deep loathing for mini-vans. I have had many friends and family members who drive them. It’s just that when I imagine MYSELF as a mini-van owner that I freak out. I don’t want it sitting in my driveway. I don’t want to drive home to Maine every summer in a mini-van with Wisconsin plates. I don’t want to have to parallel park it but I refuse to start frequenting places with parking lots.
First I tried to offer reasonable arguments against the mini-van: gas mileage – hybrid not coming out until 2007; safety; difficulty parking – especially on our frequent trips to Chicago; and the fact that we are only going to run out of space on overnight trips and we could just get one of those roof containers for a station wagon. Jason has done a pretty good job shooting down my reasonable arguments. Next, I resorted to temper tantrums, sulking, and many other attempts at emotional blackmail and cajoling. “I can’t drive one of those!” I exclaimed in tears, “If I am going to start driving a mini-van to the dog-park and the grocery store [the only places we drive on a regular basis] I might as well drop out of my Ph.D. program and we can move to the suburbs, where I can start stockpiling lunchables, get involved in AYSO, and read Nora Roberts novels.” My partner remained strangely unmoved by my ranting and raving.
Finally, I thought I had the answer. “If I can find an international student who is graduating and leaving the country and selling their station wagon for a good price, we could buy the wagon and have it for the next year. Perhaps we could get by with a wagon until Toyota introduces the hybrid mini-van. Since we will get it for a steal, it won’t be such a big deal.” Jason agreed that buying a car from someone moving out of the U.S. tends to be the way to go (we’ve done it before).
So, this Sunday at church there was a notice on the bulletin board announcing the sale of a mini-van on account of the owners moving to Vancouver. We went to look at it. It is horrible but it is a deal. Today the mechanic gave it a clean bill of health. Shoot me. Shoot me now.
van-ola
I agree and then I find myself completely repulsed by the idea of owning a mini-van. It’s not that I have a deep loathing for mini-vans. I have had many friends and family members who drive them. It’s just that when I imagine MYSELF as a mini-van owner that I freak out. I don’t want it sitting in my driveway. I don’t want to drive home to Maine every summer in a mini-van with Wisconsin plates. I don’t want to have to parallel park it but I refuse to start frequenting places with parking lots.
First I tried to offer reasonable arguments against the mini-van: gas mileage – hybrid not coming out until 2007; safety; difficulty parking – especially on our frequent trips to Chicago; and the fact that we are only going to run out of space on overnight trips and we could just get one of those roof containers for a station wagon. Jason has done a pretty good job shooting down my reasonable arguments. Next, I resorted to temper tantrums, sulking, and many other attempts at emotional blackmail and cajoling. “I can’t drive one of those!” I exclaimed in tears, “If I am going to start driving a mini-van to the dog-park and the grocery store [the only places we drive on a regular basis] I might as well drop out of my Ph.D. program and we can move to the suburbs, where I can start stockpiling lunchables, get involved in AYSO, and read Nora Roberts novels.” My partner remained strangely unmoved by my ranting and raving.
Finally, I thought I had the answer. “If I can find an international student who is graduating and leaving the country and selling their station wagon for a good price, we could buy the wagon and have it for the next year. Perhaps we could get by with a wagon until Toyota introduces the hybrid mini-van. Since we will get it for a steal, it won’t be such a big deal.” Jason agreed that buying a car from someone moving out of the U.S. tends to be the way to go (we’ve done it before).
So, this Sunday at church there was a notice on the bulletin board announcing the sale of a mini-van on account of the owners moving to Vancouver. We went to look at it. It is horrible but it is a deal. Today the mechanic gave it a clean bill of health. Shoot me. Shoot me now.
van-ola
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Green Thumb
As much as I complained about spending an entire Sunday trying to control the type of grass growing in the backyard, the spring is fun, largely because I have no idea what most of the plants coming up are.
I think that the previous owner went a little crazy on the planting - especially with hostas. I don't really get the whole hosta thing - they are just so big and ugly and they spread like crazy.
At any rate, I am on my way to the hardware store to get a couple of garden tools so I can clear out weeds in the flower beds, spread things out, and get rid of some of the millions of hostas that appear to be coming up.
house, a.m.
I think that the previous owner went a little crazy on the planting - especially with hostas. I don't really get the whole hosta thing - they are just so big and ugly and they spread like crazy.
At any rate, I am on my way to the hardware store to get a couple of garden tools so I can clear out weeds in the flower beds, spread things out, and get rid of some of the millions of hostas that appear to be coming up.
house, a.m.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
What to do when you get there
I'm reading, "The Lobster Coast,"it does a great job capturing the healthy loathing that Mainers have for folks from away. I'll write a book review once I'm finished, but I just wanted to share this quote which describes life in the summer on Monhegan Island but could just as easily pertain to my island [my island numbers and additions in brackets]:
In summer, the village seemed crowded. Indeed, the resident population quadruples [increases by 8x] to around 240 [4000] in the summer... In the early afternoon, when the waves of day trippers reach their crescendo, there can be as many as 1,500 [8000] people on the island... In the height of summer, many residents feel overwhelmed by the tourist onslaught... But others say it's not the sheer numbers that trigger resentment; it's the minority of short-term visitors who can't seem to grasp that they've arrived in a real, living island community. And a few think that they are coming to a resort like Newport or Nantucket, and arrive at the dock with golf clubs and tennis racquets (there are no facilities for either [We actually do have a tennis court]) or evening wear or high-heeled shoes... But the most dull-witted think they are visiting a theme park like Colonial Williamsburg or Disneyland. Monheganers have awakened to find day-trippers wandering around their kitchen and living rooms [walk into our house and demand to use the bathroom] and have apprehended them picking flowers [eating berries, using swings, garden hoses, and swimming pools] in the backyard. "Where is the t-shirt shop [ATM, McDonald's]?" one such person asked me ... and stood agape and confused at the notion that there wasn't such an establishment in the village. In fact ... there was no shopping [ATM, McDonald's] on Monhegan at all. She looked at me in horror and, after a long pause to gather her wits asked, desperation in her voice: "Well, why do people come here then?" (pp. 19-20, emphasis added).
So, anyway, in addition to completely understanding this quote, I've been thinking about travel. I have observed what I think of as 2 very different orientations to travel. I associate one such orientation with the Midwest and the other with Maine. However, this is likely because these are the 2 places I've lived.
1. Maine orientation: travel to relax. Most towns in Maine don't rush to build some cheesy museum, upscale resort, or hotel with a water park to try to get folks to come. The thinking is that the reason to come is all around you: the beautiful ocean and mountain vistas; the quiet -in most of Maine there is quiet in the background, if I sit absolutely quietly in my backyard here in Milwaukee, there is noise behind the quiet (e.g. cars several blocks away); outdoor activities.
2. Midwest orientation: travel to see and do. You choose your travel destinations and spend your trip seeing and doing that which one is supposed to see and do when a tourist in that place. The Corn Palace, Wall Drug, the Spam Museum, Circus World Museum, House on the Rock, all of those silly giant fiberglass cows, dinosaurs, cheeses, etc. - all of this stuff is supposed to recommend a travel spot to you and occupy your time while you are there.
When I met him, my partner had the latter orientation to travel while I was a number 1. When I go somewhere, I just want to hang out and do what the "real people" do. I want to go to grocery shopping to see what the different products are and how people go about buying things( e.g. supermarket or actual market), I want to walk around random neighborhoods, find a nice park and sit in the sun people watching, eat at the restaurants that seem to be the most local. I get very annoyed if I find myself in situations where it is obvious that I am a tourist (hard to avoid on account of height and race in many places). So, although I am happy to follow the Lonely Planet Guide's walking tour, I will NEVER pull the guide out to reference it if I am in clear view of other people on the street.
Jason, on the other hand, peruses countless guidebooks in the weeks before our trip, or even before we decide where to go, to see what it is one is supposed to see when in X. He writes a detailed itinerary for the trip and feels that no visit to Paris, for example, is complete if one hasn't seen Notre Dame, the Louvre (including the Mona Lisa), the E. Tower, Versailles, Disneyland Paris, and been on the tour of the sewers.
Our early trips were a disaster. We would just argue about how to spend our time and one of us would end up sullenly giving in to the other. He would be annoyed when I wanted to depart from the itinerary to wander around, go to church or the movies, or see where in X one goes to get their driver's license. I would be mortified to find myself in a crowd of people taking pictures of a double decker bus or perturbed that I waited for 30 minutes to see a poorly-lit Mona Lisa behind several feet of glass.
In summer, the village seemed crowded. Indeed, the resident population quadruples [increases by 8x] to around 240 [4000] in the summer... In the early afternoon, when the waves of day trippers reach their crescendo, there can be as many as 1,500 [8000] people on the island... In the height of summer, many residents feel overwhelmed by the tourist onslaught... But others say it's not the sheer numbers that trigger resentment; it's the minority of short-term visitors who can't seem to grasp that they've arrived in a real, living island community. And a few think that they are coming to a resort like Newport or Nantucket, and arrive at the dock with golf clubs and tennis racquets (there are no facilities for either [We actually do have a tennis court]) or evening wear or high-heeled shoes... But the most dull-witted think they are visiting a theme park like Colonial Williamsburg or Disneyland. Monheganers have awakened to find day-trippers wandering around their kitchen and living rooms [walk into our house and demand to use the bathroom] and have apprehended them picking flowers [eating berries, using swings, garden hoses, and swimming pools] in the backyard. "Where is the t-shirt shop [ATM, McDonald's]?" one such person asked me ... and stood agape and confused at the notion that there wasn't such an establishment in the village. In fact ... there was no shopping [ATM, McDonald's] on Monhegan at all. She looked at me in horror and, after a long pause to gather her wits asked, desperation in her voice: "Well, why do people come here then?" (pp. 19-20, emphasis added).
So, anyway, in addition to completely understanding this quote, I've been thinking about travel. I have observed what I think of as 2 very different orientations to travel. I associate one such orientation with the Midwest and the other with Maine. However, this is likely because these are the 2 places I've lived.
1. Maine orientation: travel to relax. Most towns in Maine don't rush to build some cheesy museum, upscale resort, or hotel with a water park to try to get folks to come. The thinking is that the reason to come is all around you: the beautiful ocean and mountain vistas; the quiet -in most of Maine there is quiet in the background, if I sit absolutely quietly in my backyard here in Milwaukee, there is noise behind the quiet (e.g. cars several blocks away); outdoor activities.
2. Midwest orientation: travel to see and do. You choose your travel destinations and spend your trip seeing and doing that which one is supposed to see and do when a tourist in that place. The Corn Palace, Wall Drug, the Spam Museum, Circus World Museum, House on the Rock, all of those silly giant fiberglass cows, dinosaurs, cheeses, etc. - all of this stuff is supposed to recommend a travel spot to you and occupy your time while you are there.
When I met him, my partner had the latter orientation to travel while I was a number 1. When I go somewhere, I just want to hang out and do what the "real people" do. I want to go to grocery shopping to see what the different products are and how people go about buying things( e.g. supermarket or actual market), I want to walk around random neighborhoods, find a nice park and sit in the sun people watching, eat at the restaurants that seem to be the most local. I get very annoyed if I find myself in situations where it is obvious that I am a tourist (hard to avoid on account of height and race in many places). So, although I am happy to follow the Lonely Planet Guide's walking tour, I will NEVER pull the guide out to reference it if I am in clear view of other people on the street.
Jason, on the other hand, peruses countless guidebooks in the weeks before our trip, or even before we decide where to go, to see what it is one is supposed to see when in X. He writes a detailed itinerary for the trip and feels that no visit to Paris, for example, is complete if one hasn't seen Notre Dame, the Louvre (including the Mona Lisa), the E. Tower, Versailles, Disneyland Paris, and been on the tour of the sewers.
Our early trips were a disaster. We would just argue about how to spend our time and one of us would end up sullenly giving in to the other. He would be annoyed when I wanted to depart from the itinerary to wander around, go to church or the movies, or see where in X one goes to get their driver's license. I would be mortified to find myself in a crowd of people taking pictures of a double decker bus or perturbed that I waited for 30 minutes to see a poorly-lit Mona Lisa behind several feet of glass.
We've been together long enough that we've worked this out and I think we both get more out of our trips as a result. Instead of jumping all over (e.g. 4 cities/countries in 3 days), we travel to fewer places and stay longer. Ideally, I like to be in a place long enough that I feel like I will need to get a job and apartment if I stay any longer (about 12 days) but I will settle for a shorter stay. If we go to Seattle, for example, we stay there for 3 or 4 days without taking extended day trips to the Cascades or whatever. If we want to go to the Cascades, we go for a week, much of it spent camping in remote locations as far from the park loop road as possible We also divide our days. We get up early and do the touristy stuff before too many other tourist are out and about. Then we grab lunch and spend the afternoon putzing around so I can follow my nose. We divide our dinners between places Jason finds in his guidebooks and whatever street vendor or greasy spoon catches my eye.
Rediscovery: Cocteau Twins
In 8th grade I was all about the Cocteau Twins. The extent to which I was a misfit in general was clearly visible in my musical preferences. Up until 6th or 7th grade, my music of choice was "easy listening" (e.g. The Carpenters, Neil Diamond, Gordon Lightfoot), a result of the fact that was what my mother played at home. After a very brief stint listening to the American Top 40 and trying to curl my bangs so that they would "pouf," I moved to the songs we were singing with my hippie choral director, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, songs from Godspell. I supplemented this music with a hodge-podge of other stuff I came across and liked, The Roches, Cocteau Twins, New Order, Indigo Girls, and the Dead Milkmen.
At any rate, as all my Cocteau Twins CDs were lost in the great car break-in of 1995, I have gotten away from them. However, I've been listening to them on MusicMatch jukebox lately and am reminded how much they kick ass - it's perfect "trying-to-deal-with-SAS" music.
At any rate, as all my Cocteau Twins CDs were lost in the great car break-in of 1995, I have gotten away from them. However, I've been listening to them on MusicMatch jukebox lately and am reminded how much they kick ass - it's perfect "trying-to-deal-with-SAS" music.
The Stand (1978)
I have this memory of sitting on the floor in front of my dad, who was relaxing in his chair, reading. The picture on the book's dust cover (the book was hardcover) struck me as a scary one. A man dressed in white with blonde hair (I took him to be Luke Skywalker) was confronting a black monster that looked like a giant crow. I remember asking my dad if the book was scary and he said, "Yes." The picture was scary enough for me. I remember sitting and studying him and marveling at how long it took for him to turn the page. I tried to pay attention long enough to see him turn the page again. I remember thinking to myself, "Who would ever want to read a book without any pictures on the inside?"
a book with no pictures inside
a book with no pictures inside
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
First photo with my new digital camera
It's actually a nice camera but I need a bigger memory stick so the photo isn't the best quality.
Also, it is pretty dark in my study and the flash clearly flattens the picture.
I'm very excited about the prospects of a nice digital camera.
doogers
What I am NOT excited about is SAS. I am one of the lucky souls who managed to make it through my first few years of sociology without having to deal with the lumbering behemoth that is SAS. Unfortunately, my number is up. In a mostly vain effort to pay the bills, I took a research position this semester. Of course, I haven't kept up with it so now I find myself up against a firm deadline, trying to learn SAS so I can access a cryptic super-duper high security data set.
Also, it is pretty dark in my study and the flash clearly flattens the picture.
I'm very excited about the prospects of a nice digital camera.
doogers
What I am NOT excited about is SAS. I am one of the lucky souls who managed to make it through my first few years of sociology without having to deal with the lumbering behemoth that is SAS. Unfortunately, my number is up. In a mostly vain effort to pay the bills, I took a research position this semester. Of course, I haven't kept up with it so now I find myself up against a firm deadline, trying to learn SAS so I can access a cryptic super-duper high security data set.
When it rains...
Just as my childhood home is being sold, the Scotia Prince, the ship with lights visible from the island as it came in and out of Portland Harbor every evening, is also up on the auction block. When I went off to Chicago for college, I brought a poster print of a watercolor of the Scotia Prince motoring out of the harbor in the twilight.
Scotia Prince, photo from Portland Press Herald, taken byJohn Patriquin
Scotia Prince, photo from Portland Press Herald, taken byJohn Patriquin
Sunday, April 24, 2005
i know, i know, just get over it
OK. I have never spoken with Mary and I have spoken with Dad once since I got back from Alaska. I called and we were on the phone about 2 minutes before he got a call on the other line. He said, "Oops, I've got to go. That's the boss." I said, "OK, maybe you can call me later." And that was it.
Today, I received, from Mary's email account, the following email - which starts out as if it is written by my dad but it is clearly not.
Dear Kids,
As most of you know, Mary and I are planning to sell the main home on [-] Island. We plan to keep the cottage and perhaps, if the Lord wills [my dad would NEVER write this], add on to make it a year-round home. We are trying to clean and fix up the main home and make it more presentable for sale to maximize the return [my dad would never write this].We are finding we could use some help from as many of you who can participate as possible. On May 30th the Memorial Weekend we would like to have you all come and help. We will supply all the food if you will supply the strength, endurance, energy and time[my dad would never write this]. (We know this is impossible for some but we would like you all to know what is going on. Come if you can).Please let us know by May 14th so we can purchase paint and whatever else is necessary.
Love to each of you,
Dad and Mary
Today, I received, from Mary's email account, the following email - which starts out as if it is written by my dad but it is clearly not.
Dear Kids,
As most of you know, Mary and I are planning to sell the main home on [-] Island. We plan to keep the cottage and perhaps, if the Lord wills [my dad would NEVER write this], add on to make it a year-round home. We are trying to clean and fix up the main home and make it more presentable for sale to maximize the return [my dad would never write this].We are finding we could use some help from as many of you who can participate as possible. On May 30th the Memorial Weekend we would like to have you all come and help. We will supply all the food if you will supply the strength, endurance, energy and time[my dad would never write this]. (We know this is impossible for some but we would like you all to know what is going on. Come if you can).Please let us know by May 14th so we can purchase paint and whatever else is necessary.
Love to each of you,
Dad and Mary
I memba how it used to be.
My Maine accent was heaviest before 7th grade. That's when tracking started in the Portland Public Schools. I was tracked into classes primarily with first generation Mainers (people whose parents had moved to Portland from elsewhere for work and, hence, spoke without heavy Maine accents). I became very self-conscious about my own accent - but, of course, I was insecure about everything during the dark and terrible middle school years.
I used to say "memba" instead of remember. Na Hampsha instead of New Hampshire. Propity instead of property. I could go on and on. I did have a bit of a Maine accent left when I got to college - most obvious in words that I hadn't had much opportunity to use off the island. At the end of my first year of college I went on a road trip to Sault Ste. Marie with some friends. There was a monument to ship building or sea-faring or something. In the center of the monument was a large propeller. I said, "Look at that cool old propella."
When I learned of this survey, I decided to see how much my Maine-ish has been diluted by my years in the Midwest. Of course, Yankee is an awfully broad category, especially for an instrument that claims to distinguish between Midwest and Upper Midwest, but we can see that I am less than 50% yankee. It's sad, really.
Your Linguistic Profile: |
45% Yankee |
35% General American English |
15% Upper Midwestern |
5% Dixie |
0% Midwestern |
Friday, April 22, 2005
word to the wise
Let's say you are acquainted with a woman who is 5+ months pregnant. You haven't seen her in a bit and you expect her to be sporting quite a belly. When you finally do see her, you are surprised that she doesn't really seem to be showing.
In such a situation, do NOT say (unprompted, anyway), "Oh, if I didn't know you were pregnant, I wouldn't have ever guessed." Or anything along those lines.
Why? Because the woman in question undeniably knows that she is pregnant, that she has a gargantuan belly that keeps her from wearing her old clothes, sleeping on her back or her stomach, and even comfortably riding the recumbent bike at the gym. Sure, that belly is going to get bigger but her uterus is already the size of a basketball and if you tell her that you don't see a thing you are just telling her that, in your eyes, she was always huge.
In such a situation, do NOT say (unprompted, anyway), "Oh, if I didn't know you were pregnant, I wouldn't have ever guessed." Or anything along those lines.
Why? Because the woman in question undeniably knows that she is pregnant, that she has a gargantuan belly that keeps her from wearing her old clothes, sleeping on her back or her stomach, and even comfortably riding the recumbent bike at the gym. Sure, that belly is going to get bigger but her uterus is already the size of a basketball and if you tell her that you don't see a thing you are just telling her that, in your eyes, she was always huge.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Day on the water
Last August, my partner, my dad and I took one last sail before I left Maine for Milwaukee. My dad has a great boat, Ruach, a 32 foot Pearson Vanguard – beautiful, with a heavy fiberglass hull, the boat is a tank designed to handle the roughest seas. It was a beautiful day on Casco Bay – 75 degrees, sunny, with a light wind out of the south east. We sailed through Whitehead passage and past Ram Island and Ram Island Ledge Light. We saw some White-sided Atlantic dolphins. We traveled down to Halfway Rock and then looped back behind Long Island. We dropped anchor at Little Chebeague and ate lunch. We sat reading for a bit and then I took a swim.
It was a bit choppy on the sail back to the island, the breeze had picked up a bit. After we arrived at the mooring, Dad and Jason covered the sail while I headed below deck to close up and change out of my swimsuit. I came back above board to find them loading the dinghy for the trip to shore. I hopped aboard first as I was to row. Then Jason, who sits in the stern came aboard. I turned the dinghy to make it easier for dad to climb in the bow. As he was descending the ladder from Ruach, his wallet slipped out of his jeans pocket. I reached for it, and in so doing, I knocked it into the water.
“Damn!” I exclaimed. Dad jumped into the dinghy and we all peered over the side to watch his wallet settle slowly into a bare patch of exposed sand between beds of eel grass. The water was only about 15 feet deep but the tide was on its way in, so we needed to act fast.
“I’ll go in for it,” I said, “Let me put my suit back on.”
I grabbed my bag, climbed back aboard Ruach, and changed quickly into my damp bathing suit.
“Islander, come here and look at this!” Jason called from the dinghy. I jumped down and looked into the water to see the strangest thing. There were 2 large carp on the bottom examining the wallet. As we watched, a third carp arrived. Then, to our surprise, one of the fish began to nudge the wallet with what would be its nose if it had a nose. Before we knew it, the carp were batting the wallet from fish to fish in what looked like some crazy game of aquatic volleyball.
“Well,” said may dad with a bemused look at Jason and me, “who would have ever thought that there is such a thing carp to carp walleting?”
It was a bit choppy on the sail back to the island, the breeze had picked up a bit. After we arrived at the mooring, Dad and Jason covered the sail while I headed below deck to close up and change out of my swimsuit. I came back above board to find them loading the dinghy for the trip to shore. I hopped aboard first as I was to row. Then Jason, who sits in the stern came aboard. I turned the dinghy to make it easier for dad to climb in the bow. As he was descending the ladder from Ruach, his wallet slipped out of his jeans pocket. I reached for it, and in so doing, I knocked it into the water.
“Damn!” I exclaimed. Dad jumped into the dinghy and we all peered over the side to watch his wallet settle slowly into a bare patch of exposed sand between beds of eel grass. The water was only about 15 feet deep but the tide was on its way in, so we needed to act fast.
“I’ll go in for it,” I said, “Let me put my suit back on.”
I grabbed my bag, climbed back aboard Ruach, and changed quickly into my damp bathing suit.
“Islander, come here and look at this!” Jason called from the dinghy. I jumped down and looked into the water to see the strangest thing. There were 2 large carp on the bottom examining the wallet. As we watched, a third carp arrived. Then, to our surprise, one of the fish began to nudge the wallet with what would be its nose if it had a nose. Before we knew it, the carp were batting the wallet from fish to fish in what looked like some crazy game of aquatic volleyball.
“Well,” said may dad with a bemused look at Jason and me, “who would have ever thought that there is such a thing carp to carp walleting?”
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
MKE
Meetup.com recently decided they needed to make some money - this makes sense as they have a staff and offer a worthwhile service - an easy way to locate and network with local folks with shared interests. However, they decided to remedy their financial troubles by charging meetup organizers for each meetup. The fee is $19.00 a month or something like that but, for folks who have been with meetup for a while, they are extending a deal - $9.00 a month for the rest of the year. Organizers are encouraged to pass this expense along to their group and, in fact, are able to make money on their meetup if the so choose. In addition to use of the meetup website, organizers get a whole bunch of really cool stuff for paying up - table tents and professionally printed meetup cards and the like.
So, my book group decided that this whole scheme is a bad idea. What about targeted marketing for Pete's sake? Why not charge a meetup.com membership fee instead of passing off the work to the organizer? Should small groups like mine (3 -6 people per meetup and 9 members total), pay the same fee as a large group that really uses meetup resources for networking (e.g. Democracy for America)?
We decided to move off meetup.com and, while I was creating a home on blogger for the group, I came across this blog. I am curious about Mike. Did he ever manage to get through "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets?" Did he decide to call it quits with the films there or did he go on to pirate "Prisoner of Azkaban?" Did he come up with that Q*bert template himself and, if not, can blogger bring it back?
That is all.
So, my book group decided that this whole scheme is a bad idea. What about targeted marketing for Pete's sake? Why not charge a meetup.com membership fee instead of passing off the work to the organizer? Should small groups like mine (3 -6 people per meetup and 9 members total), pay the same fee as a large group that really uses meetup resources for networking (e.g. Democracy for America)?
We decided to move off meetup.com and, while I was creating a home on blogger for the group, I came across this blog. I am curious about Mike. Did he ever manage to get through "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets?" Did he decide to call it quits with the films there or did he go on to pirate "Prisoner of Azkaban?" Did he come up with that Q*bert template himself and, if not, can blogger bring it back?
That is all.
Desperate
So, I've been holding off on the acquisition of a lot of preggo clothes. I reasoned that if I could just make it until the weather warms up, I can save money by picking up a few pairs of BIG shorts and capris and couple them with ratty t-shirts to make it through the summer.
The warmth is here, although it is going to cool down again for the next few days, and I am caught unawares. I am sitting at home wearing a pair of Jason's shorts and one of his t-shirts. My legs are bright white and my feet and ankles are horribly swollen. I look and feel so horrendous that I actually cancelled my meeting with my advisor rather than face the world in this state.
Hang on, I just realized why the bells at the Catholic church in my neighborhood have been pealing for the last 20 minutes or so - there must be a new pope.
Anyway, my summer plan - sitting in a child's wading pool in my back yard wearing an old t-shirt and cut-off sweatpants and drinking smoothies - is fine and good except for when I need or desire to have a bit of interface with the rest of the world.
The warmth is here, although it is going to cool down again for the next few days, and I am caught unawares. I am sitting at home wearing a pair of Jason's shorts and one of his t-shirts. My legs are bright white and my feet and ankles are horribly swollen. I look and feel so horrendous that I actually cancelled my meeting with my advisor rather than face the world in this state.
Hang on, I just realized why the bells at the Catholic church in my neighborhood have been pealing for the last 20 minutes or so - there must be a new pope.
Anyway, my summer plan - sitting in a child's wading pool in my back yard wearing an old t-shirt and cut-off sweatpants and drinking smoothies - is fine and good except for when I need or desire to have a bit of interface with the rest of the world.
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