Happiness is ...

... being back home after a trip.

... the half-knitted sleeve of a sweater that's all for you.

... my daughter's megawatt smile.

.... my son's secret smile.

... a video of those smiles on a beach.

... boxes of presents that it's finally time to enjoy.

... New Year's Eve the way I like it: quiet with a glass of bubbly and my husband.

Just beachy

It was chilly and windy, but brilliantly sunny and beautiful at the beach on St. Simons Island during our visit. Here's a photolog of our many trips two blocks down Eleventh Street to the golden strand.



Is Cady Gray more excited about going to the beach, or being with her Papa?




Sorry, Papa, I think it's the beach.




The beach inspires frenzied dancing ...




... and running in circles.




Archer shared his non-eco-friendly "dune avalanche" game with his sister.




And he even tried his hand at Frisbie (actually the Aerobie Super Disk).




The beach is even better when you share it with your cool aunt and cousin.




Writing your name in the sand: a beach tradition.




The beach access path forms a magical tunnel enclosed by trees, inspiring contemplative thoughts.




This morning, Archer's cool teenage cousin -- an accomplished cross-country runner -- took him for a jog on a very blustery beach.




Archer kept going (and kept up a running commentary) for a couple of miles, despite the fierce headwind.




Master and pupil.




Everybody joined in for the home stretch.




A new generation follows in our footsteps.

Christmas mashup

Today's post about those worthy of knitted gifts is at Toxophily.

And if you want an idea of how joyous our holidays have been, here's the official video.

Looking for adventure

It's our second family gathering in two days -- and our third Christmas gift exchange overall. And that means some handknits reached their final destinations, rendering them safe to blog. You can get all the details at Toxophily -- and you should expect more in the days to come.

Our travels so far have been safe and uneventful. If we can log one more day like that on New Year's Eve, we'll be home -- literally home -- free.

Christmas number two complete

It was a whirlwind day -- if six hours of driving can be described as whirlwind. We breezed to Nashville and accumulated about 30% more presents by volume than we brought. The kids begged to get into their air mattress sleeping bags early; Archer reasoned aloud that they should tuck in at 6:30 since they have to get up at 5:30, but really they were just excited about what Opie memorably called "adventure sleeping."

Tomorrow we'll trek to the airport at the crack of dawn, board an early flight to Jacksonville, and cross fingers/knock wood, arrive at the rented house on St. Simon's Island by lunchtime. I'm looking forward to the last leg of the outward journey, to Christmas number three, and to relaxing with my family before the even-more-whirlwind combined air-highway journey home on New Year's Eve, weather permitting. See you on the coast!

To grandmother's house we go

Today's post about socks for black light conditions is at Toxophily.

We're off on a whirlwind trip to the grandparents -- both sets -- and internet may be intermittent. If I don't get to post much or at all before New Year's, please remember that the Archies will be getting underway once 2010 arrives (here are the 2006, 2007, and 2008 editions). I invite you to compile your lists of celebration, grief, and puzzlement, and share them with me when you do!

Christmas haul: A critical review

We took some chances this year on gifts for the kids, and I think we hit the jackpot. After playtesting some of the items this afternoon, here's a brief report of our experience.

Quirkle

This domino-esque tile game was the first one Cady Gray wanted to play. You play tiles in lines that have one of two attributes in common: either the same shape (of six possible), or the same color (of six possible). There's only about one page of instructions, and a helpful diagram of a sample game. We played without keeping track of points, but the kids caught on to the high-scoring moves (play tiles that count in more than one line, complete a set of six and earn a bonus) very quickly.

I love a lot of things about this game. There's no board, just a bag of tiles (substantial, brightly-colored, and well-made). Strategy is important but not complicated. Scoring is intuitive. In short, it's the perfect game for a range of ages. Both the five-year-old and the eight-year-old were competitive with me almost immediately. (I started off playing with Cady Gray while Archer was immersed in his favorite gift -- a handheld electronic chess game -- but after fifteen minutes he wandered over and started pestering me about playing the next game.) This one's going to have good staying power.

Doodle Dice

Another game whose easily-grasped rules makes it playable for a wide range of ages. In a Yahtzee-esque setup, the player rolls six dice, each with six simple symbols (angle, curve, line, squiggle, face, dot), and has three tries to match one of the figures on the "gallery" of cards that have been played. There are six colors of cards, each corresponding to a figure that takes one to six dice to complete. Your object is to match a figure from each color of card, thereby collecting that card and completing your set.

Like Quirkle, this is all about seeing spatial relationships and exercising foresight. Like Quirkle, there are no words or role-playing to get in the way of the pure challenge. And like Quirkle, the game is accessible from kindergarten-age through adults. It doesn't take very long, either. We were playing within five minutes of opening the box -- again, there's only one brief page of rules. Fun and addictive.

Monopoly Electronic Banking Edition

We knew Archer would be delighted by the chance to use ATM-style debit cards to keep track of his net worth in his updated Monopoly, but I've been hesitant to jump into Monopoly with him, quite frankly. It's long and relatively complicated, what with having to decide when to buy houses and mortgage properties. But I was surprised at how much he started enjoying himself right away. One of the only pieces of strategy I proffered was that he should buy up as many properties as possible at the beginning so they could start earning money for him; he immediately grasped it and was a super-mogul by the second time around the board. (He ended up schooling me in our first game, and not because I was hanging back, either.)

The amounts of money are ramped up in his edition -- the fact that you get $2 million for passing Go should give you an idea of the inflation rate. And the properties are famous landmarks all over the world. (I enjoyed collecting the Gateway Arch, Disney World, and the Grand Ole Opry.) But the only difference in game play is how you keep track of the money. Each player has a card, and there's a banking machine. All cards start off with $15 million. If you have to pay, put your card in the side with the minus sign, and enter the amount in either K or M (thousands or millions). If you're being paid, put your card in the plus sign side and do the same thing. And if you're paying another player, put both cards in on the appropriate side, type in the amount, and it transfers.

The real drawback here is that you have to put your card in the machine to see how much money you have. I found myself asking Archer frequently (he was operating the machine, naturally, and usually he remembered from the last time he'd inserted my card). It might be helpful for everyone to keep their latest balance jotted down on scratch paper as they play.

But I found this a faithful rendition of a classic, with a numerical/electronic component that's tailor-made to delight my number/calculator/ATM/money-obsessed autist. His sister came in near the end-game and asked (characteristically) whether she could be the banker "but not play" next time.

Trios Kings Castle

I'm really happy about the way this one worked out. Stuck about a week before Christmas with nothing for pretend-play to put under the tree, I steered Noel toward Trios (which I'd wanted to get for CG's birthday, but didn't manage to procure). He got this castle building set, and spent a couple of happy hours this afternoon putting it together with her. (She enthusiastically adopted his motto for how to tell if the pieces had locked together firmly: "A satisfying snap!"). I was amazed at how big it turned out to be. There are quite a few figures and accessories, and as soon as it was together (CG was able to handle much of the construction solo, with Dad assisting when modules had to be combined), she started having the dragon-catapult attack and putting the little minifig-like knights into single combat or having them man the cannon and crossbow.

There are several other suggestions for ways to combine the building pieces to make different varieties of castles and towers. I was hoping that a Trios set would combine CG's pride in creative construction with her love of role-playing. From her happy embrace of the set this afternoon, I think I was right.

A history of receiving

These are the best gifts I've ever received, in no particular order.

• Intellectual curiosity and a belief in myself, courtesy of my dad.
• My children -- thanks to Noel.
• The love of a good man.
• An appreciation of well-designed computers and software, from my older brother.
• Knowledge about and enjoyment of sports, thanks to the men in my family.
• Space to be myself, courtesy of my mom.
• A passion for music and the training to take part, also thanks to mom.
• The lending library system.
• A Whiteheadian perspective on Christianity, from Dr. Will Power.
• Fearless knitting, thanks to Ravelry and Ravelers everywhere.
• Good health, good teeth, and a good appetite, courtesy of my entire genetic heritage.

Thanks to everyone who's given me so much over the years. May you all be as blessed.

When darkest was the night

One of the reasons I like to be here in Conway for Christmas is the St. Peter's Christmas Eve service. Growing up, we usually had an evening church service and then a Christmas Day afternoon service with communion. But I had never gone to midnight services before I got here.

Our handbell choir usually plays -- another good reason to be at home, since it's difficult for a handbell choir to function with members missing. This year we're doing only one piece, but it's a showstopper: a version of "We Three Kings" performed with mallets banging on the tables and each other in a drumline fashion.

What's best about the midnight service, though, is the darkness. The winter solstice has just passed, and the night is at its longest and deepest. The whole service is cloaked in shadow, with only a few candles at the beginning, with more lit as Christmas, and Christ's advent, approaches. Carols quaver from the unlit pews. Scripture is read. And as the clock ticks toward the very heart of the night, we sit in silence and wait.

I'll be in the sanctuary for about three hours tomorrow and on into the day after tomorrow, all told. Between showing up early for a last handbell practice, the Christmas cantata before the service begins, and the lengthy readings and Eucharist, it's one of the longest nights of the year. But that's as it should be. That's what we're celebrating -- the arrival of light in the midst of the deepest darkness. That's what cultures the world over celebrate at this time of year, and that's the archetypal symbolism that Christians have found so congenial for their celebration of Emmanuel, God with us.

There's no place I'd rather be.

Three Christmases

It must take a while for parents to establish a Christmas equilibrium. When you go from grandparents' house to grandparents' house during or after the holidays, the kids end up having more than one gift-receiving smorgasbord. So how do you calibrate your own provision for their Christmas morning in light of the fact that they're going to have more later?

A couple of weeks ago, we realized that since we were seeing all sides of the family during the holidays, only our own gifts were going to be under the tree here in Conway. It's the first time this has happened, strangely enough; at every other Christmas, one set of grandparents or the other -- sometimes both! -- have shipped their gifts here and been a part of our own December 25.

What that means is that suddenly the pile of presents under the tree has shrunk by a factor of about 50%. And how have we responded? Predictably, by buying more than we had planned so that our Christmas morning will be as bountiful as ... we thought it should be. Because our kids certainly have no expectations. It's all about our perception of generosity and bountifulness, as parents.

In the end, the kids will have a nice sized Christmas on the day in question, then a couple more on a slightly smaller scale during the following week. Maybe 125% of a usual year's haul. And it's nobody's fault but ours. Luckily, our kids are not the type to worry and whine about what they don't have, nor to hoard and whine about what they do have. Even if we're doing our best to make unsatisfied little consumers out of them with our own insecurities about Christmas, I have confidence that their personalities will remain sunny and their outlook will remain optimistic.

Elf work

Today was unexpectedly warm, so Noel took the kids to the park while I scrambled to wrap a few presents and put them under the tree.

Operating under the assumption that Cady Gray and Archer will not care if their presents are wrapped well -- and only slightly if they are wrapped at all -- I did my fastest, sloppiest work. Ripped paper? A little extra tape will take care of that. Too big a piece for the box? Just crush the corners and force the fold through quadruple layers.

As I slapped tags on packages and grabbed the first bows that came to hand, I was reminded of Christmas Eve in the house where I grew up. On that night, and not before, Dad would announce that "Santa's workshop" was now open. He'd disappear to the basement with a roll of wrapping paper, tape, and scissors. Then, next to my mother's perfectly decorated boxes with curling ribbon and carefully preserved hand-me-down tags, Dad's contributions to the tree would appear: lumpy, misshapen rectangles with no bows and tags made out of squares of wrapping paper folded over. ("Ho ho ho," they often opined.)

Dad couldn't wrap. But he still took charge of a present for each member of the family, usually a book he thought we might like. I can wrap, but today I chose not to exert my wrapping energy. Putting it in the best light, I was paying tribute to those poorly wrapped packages with the carefully-chosen items inside. More likely, it will be Noel's gifts to me that carry on that true spirit. Nevertheless, it's nice to be able to redefine carelessness as a homage to my father.

Haul out the holly

One of the Christmas activities we have here in Conway is a visit to the light display out at the soccer field just outside of the town limits. You drive slowly around the perimeter of the complex and look at the reindeer browsing for fodder ... the elves making toys at Santa's workshop ... the Christmas train pulling in at the depot ... the nativity scene ... toy soldiers marching by their guardhouse ... and skaters gliding (or falling) on the ice.

The highlight of the tour is the set of numbers depicting the twelve days of Christmas. After two or three prior visits where we sang the song while driving by, the kids now know exactly what's coming. I sense that we now have a Tradition.

It's tough to create a tradition from scratch. They tend to just happen, I suspect. You do something by accident, and then somebody gets attached to it. The downside of traditions is that we get anxious if they are threatened. And so while I'm looking forward to Christmas morning here at home -- something we haven't experienced with the kids very often yet -- I know that I'll likely to feeling some stress about trying to make it match with the traditions I'd like to create, the ones that as of now exist only in my head.

And so it's a good time to remind myself that there is no such thing as the way it's always been -- only the selective perception of the way we think it ought to be. The holidays belong to all of us. That gives us the power to create the traditions that work for us, but it also gives us the responsibility to let other people do the same.

A whole new world

Avatar has divided my critic friends. We saw it tonight -- in 2D, unfortunately. But for the moment, if you release a film in 2D and 3D, it had better work in both. It's not like talkies were simultaneously released in a silent version. So I have to believe I saw the film, even though I wasn't wearing special glasses.

And I was pretty darn impressed. Yes, it culminates in some serious mystical hokum; yes, the story beats are predictable and the showdown with the unkillable villain preprogrammed. But there are more moments of spontaneity and humor than a big effects-laden blockbuster like this usually deserves. The facial motion-capture effects are obviously way better than anything we've seen, especially with eye movements, and that makes a huge difference in the parts of the film that have to be carried by the aliens.

But it was the scope, imagination, and detail of the environment, as well as the camera's swift and joyous movement through it, that really make this a movie to be reckoned with. Some people are saying that it is the Jazz Singer of computer-generated films. I don't think it's that big a game-changer. But I do think it's the Jurassic Park of the genre. Remember the sense of awe that was provoked when those dinosaurs ran right by Sam Neill and Laura Dern? That's exactly what this movie provides for some very long stretches. It's clearly a huge leap forward for the technology.

And thanks to the distinctive voice and eye -- for good and ill -- of James Cameron, it's a real movie as well. It has all the flaws and strengths of its creator. It's not a corporate creation. Despite the hundreds of millions of dollars and the thousands of people involved in it, there's a singular point of view to be found there. You may not like it (I've certainly got my problems with it), and it's certainly not subtle, but I think it's rather amazing that such a huge enterprise and such a technical achievement turns out to have a soul, even if partially worm-eaten.

Post scripts

It's suddenly become evident by the writing assignments Archer is bringing home that, like all kids at one time or another, he has discovered the humorous possibilities in multiple postscripts. Here's an example (all sic):

Dear Grinchy Santy Claus:

Christmas-time is special because of the snow! You can really play in that snow! You can play in it for hours! You can make snow-men, snow angels, snow-balls, or, even snow-ball-fight! Just play on in the snow, Grinchy. Good luck!

Another specialty is hot cocoa. Drink it when you're hot cold. Drink away!

Love, Archer

P.S. Are you calling yourself Grinchy-Santy-Claus?

P.P.S. You're mouth's going to water when it's time to feast.

P.P.P.S. Why are you wanting to steal Christmas?

P.P.P.P.S. The Whos want their presents back. May you pleasy please give them back?

P.P.P.P.P.S. Pleasy-please-really-sugar-topped-please?

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Please-pleasantly-plesanlly-pleaserry-raspberry-topped-please will you give them back?

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Merry Christmas!

Suddenly to just turn the page

Today's post about obsessions in bulk is at Toxophily.

As wonderful as our Thanksgiving meal was, one element was missing: traditional stuffing. I got to have hot, bready, celeryish, yellow-orange, rosemary-and-sage scented stuffing today at Archer's third grade Christmas lunch. It was the very definition of cafeteria heaven.

We haven't thought at all about Christmas dinner yet, seeing as we're going to be here all by ourselves. But I know what I'd like. Pancakes for breakfast and turkey and stuffing for lunch, with plenty of sandwiches and apples for a pre-bedtime snack.

Duties

One of the most painful duties of an administrator in my position is dealing with grade appeals. If a student accuses a professor of grading her unfairly, I have to get both sides of the story, gather evidence, and propose a resolution. What makes it so difficult is that professors feel assaulted by grade appeals. They feel that they should not have to prove they acted professionally. I understand that, because that's the position I occupy half the time I'm at work.

But part of that professionalism is understanding that their authority is exercised on behalf of the institution, and that the institution has to be able to examine what they do in order to stand behind them. I don't like peeking into another instructor's perogative, because I wouldn't like to have it done to me. I have a close relationship with students, too, though, and I know that they sincerely feel assaulted as well, sometimes. The process of grade appeals means standing in between two wounded parties. And no matter what you recommend and decide, you can't patch them up. The damage is done; the trust is shattered.

One of the happiest duties of my job is to become colleagues with my students. Tonight I took my teaching assistant out to dinner with her husband. It's wonderful to deal with students as equals -- to give them responsibility, to depend on them, to watch them rise to the occasion. And the enjoyment comes from being able to help them along to the next stage. You can give them opportunities that they can use to open doors for themselves. You can write in letters of recommendation about the very specific ways they responded to the challenge. You can introduce them not as your students, but as your partners.

The two experiences are polar opposites. One breaks the fragile connections of academia; one creates bonds that can last a lifetime. One feels like a betrayal; one feels like a gift. It's probably impossible to do this job without the promise and the peril combined. I feel very fortunate that I probably have ten experiences of the latter variety for every one of the former.

Overscheduled

For the day after grades were due, I find myself surprisingly booked up. Today we reviewed the grades of all our students; I took the car to the dealer for service; we went to a school fundraiser at a local franchise restaurant and then to Cady Gray's kindergarten Christmas program; and then I wrote up the last performance show of So You Think You Can Dance.

And because of all that I didn't remember until right now that I hadn't written a blog post. So I'll have to let what I wrote about the dance competition stand in for actual content tonight. Perhaps after tomorrow's recommendation letter writing, Course of Study School grading, meeting with the public relations officer, dinner with teaching assistants, and two hours of liveblogging, I'll find a little more time for reflection.

In decline

I had an errand to run in a certain part of town, so I thought I'd visit a fast-food establishment over there that's not in my usual rotation. I probably haven't been there in six months or more. But after a run with Archer this morning, I had a craving for one of their burgers.

When I arrived, it was five minutes after opening. Cars were lined up at the drive-through, but I was the first to pull in and park. I grabbed my book and my purse and walked up to the door -- only to find it locked. Checked the hours; yep, supposed to open five minutes ago. Walked around to the other side -- locked.

I peered in the window and saw a couple exiting the other side of the restaurant, and then an employee coming toward my side. She opened the doors and said, "You can come inside, but I'm the only one here. The others will be here in a few minutes."

As I waiting, I thought about what it meant if a franchise doesn't have employees who show up for opening. It's a sign of a business in decline.

Noel and I used to go to a pasta franchise not far from where I was having lunch today. By the last time we went, some menu items were listed as unavailable, and the food was served on paper plates from the nearby Wal-Mart. The franchise couldn't afford to get its supplies from the main office. It was the last gasp. Shortly thereafter, the building was up for sale (and so it still remains today).

I find the experience of visiting a failing business depressing. It's like throwing good money after bad. I can no longer help them, and they know that; so why should they care about me? Driving back to my office, I almost expected to find it as abandoned and dysfunctional as the restaurant. Failure feels like a virus that could easily spread.

At the movies

Noel let me horn in on his daddy-daughter time this afternoon. Usually he takes Cady Gray to the movies and I spend time with Archer. But because I was excited about seeing The Princess And The Frog, he let me switch places with him.

It was a thrill. When you're young and just starting to imagine having a family, you think about taking your imaginary kids to the kinds of movies you saw as a kid. And for me, of course, that's traditional Disney animation. The return of cel animation is like the ability to step back in time and give your children an experience that you had, that for a scary moment you thought never would return.

And I think those who are critiquing the movie for not being an instant classic are missing the forest for the trees. Quite aside from the cultural significance of a Disney heroine and setting in the African-American community -- a belated rectifying of the Uncle Remus legacy -- this is a tremendously enjoyable and often technically astounding piece of work. I think some of the broad, slapstick humor is off-putting, but that's maybe two sequences out of the whole. Some of the most remarkable effects animation in history more than compensates -- the brief song of the fireflies is glorious, and nearly all the musical sequences have animation that pops right out of the frame. I don't know what people who complain about the music are talking about -- it's fantastic; loving, complex, but infectious invocations of distinctly American genres, with some inspired lyrics. Not the most hummable tunes, but really wonderful in context.

The story might be among the weaker of the fairy-tale adaptations, but the writers make something out of almost nothing by giving the hero and heroine a classic ant and grasshopper dynamic. It turns out to be a meditation on what it means to achieve your dreams -- what success consists of -- a theme I frequently bring up with students.

I hope I get to take Cady Gray to many more hand-drawn animated films in the future. Perhaps Noel will let me have that segment of the kid-movie market to experience with my daughter. We both enjoyed our first outing in the series, and hereby petition John Lasseter for a long and fruitful run of the new golden age of the cel.

A moment to shine

I attended two commencement ceremonies today in my role as one of the faculty marshals. Seven times a year I lead the undergraduates who are receiving Latin honors or have completed a thesis project across the stage. It always takes up most of a Saturday, and in the case of the three May ceremonies, all of a Saturday.

My undergraduate commencement was a momentous occasion. I gathered with my friends on the recently denuded quad (Dutch elm disease had claimed the stately rows of trees that had previously shaded it), I walked across the stage, I shook the president's hand, and a few weeks later I got my diploma in a mailer tube.

But I didn't attend the ceremony for my master's degree. It was to be held in the basketball arena, and there was no walking across the stage for the thousands of graduates. Besides, I was headed to the big moment -- the Ph.D. hooding ceremony, held in a beautiful garden just off the Lawn at the University of Virginia.

There were between three and four hundred graduates at each of the two ceremonies today. Each of them heard the melodious voice of the dean of students pronounce their name, walked to the center of the stage to the sound of whoops from their family and friends, and took an empty embossed diploma cover from the hand of the president. Even as the student reached for it, the next name was being announced. They walked to the other side of the stage, passed by me or another faculty marshal, and it was over. Fifteen seconds in the spotlight.

Our culture elevates the commencement ceremony, whether high school or college, into a hugely significant rite of passage. We're supposed to have the party of our lives, be assaulted by existential anxiety, and experience it all in slow motion through a star filter. I think the reality is far more pedestrian for most students. And yet for most, there's only get one shot at it. Perhaps I'm lucky to have seven commencements a year. Sure, it means I'm not going anywhere; but at least I have a chance to savor the moment over and over and over.

Inside, Out, and Back Again

Every December and May we have a banquet for our graduates on the night before their commencement ceremonies. My boss and I divide up the responsibility and honor of giving the banquet address; I give the talk in December, to a smaller number of graduates, and Rick gives it in May at the larger ceremony.

Since it's a different crowd every semester, we typically repeat ourselves with impunity. I've given two addresses total, I think, in the many years I've been speaking at the December event. But for some foolish reason, I decided that I might want to write a new speech. I was just completing my second semester teaching outside of the Honors College, and I had been thinking about the lessons of the experience.

I really shouldn't have committed myself to such a major writing project during a week of grading and voting in the indieWIRE and Village Voice critics' polls. But I forced myself to think about it in the last few days. The blog post I wrote on Monday was an attempt to jumpstart the process. I didn't end up using those ideas or structure so much, but when I finally sat down Thursday afternoon to get started, I worked in fits and starts through the entire piece.

I can pound out a piece of writing if I need to. And given enough time and enough determination, it can even be good. I like to be inspired, but I don't need to be; in fact, the majority of what I write week after week comes out of necessity and not desire. When the people in my unit need a letter composed or a report drafted, they come to me. Rick says that I'm deeply shallow -- meaning I can spin a really good phrase, something with meaning and relevance and verve, really reliably. I don't always enjoy the process, but I certainly enjoy getting so much done, and having others feel they can depend on me when writing needs doing.

Campus waste management: A photo-essay

Last year the Student Government Association bought a few dozen recycling containers and distributed them around campus. Believe it or not, it's the first time our campus has had outdoor recycling collection. Various departments and units collected recyclables in their buildings with hallways containers, some official, some improvised.



One September day as I was walking to school, I saw physical plant workers hauling away these gray trashcans from the Student Center plaza. These cans had been in place for less than a year, much-needed replacements for beat-up wood-paneled trash-drum corrals whose tenure on campus was about the same length as mine.



The gray cans were being replaced with these shiny new green ones. A couple of months later, the green ones still haven't made it everywhere. It's possible the replacement program was curtailed because a new protocol was being put into place ...



These dual-opening customized bins made a sudden appearance just a couple of weeks ago. And they followed an early-semester edict that all recycling containers in building hallways were to be removed because of unsightliness. Only a few of the blue student-purchased bins still can be found.

Just this week I've started to see these black barrels appearing in some indoor locations. It looks like the final step in the waste collection strategy is finally in place, and it only took four iterations in less than twelve months to get it done! And the emphasis on campus image hasn't gone unnoticed by student wags. This sign appeared on the bike rack by the cafeteria a little while back:



"For the sake of better aesthetics for the UCA campus, we would appreciate it if you parked your bikes in rainbow order."

Four panels, no waiting

James Callan, movie critic and trivia master, tweeted about this list from School Library Journal of this year's best comics for kids.

Cady Gray has taken to comics in a big way. Noel stocks her bookshelves with phone-book-sized compilations of kid-friendly strips like Peanuts, Calvin & Hobbes, Little Lulu, Casper and all his friends. We pick up Archie digests for her every time we go to our local bookstore. And when we go into her room and see her lying on the floor with one, or reading one in bed, we get the warm fuzzies. If there's anything more nostalgic than remembering your own childhood love of comics, it's realizing that you can nurture the same passion in a new generation.

Both our kids have developed a deep appreciation for silliness and topsy-turvydom. It's natural in a certain age, I understand, but Archer seems to have acquired it simultaneously with Cady Gray -- or maybe he got it from Cady Gray. She frequently emerges from her room with a comic strip she wants to show us. "It's so funny!" she'll enthuse, then quote the speech balloons. "Get it?" she'll exclaim with delight, repeating the phrases over and over.

The best moment was when I found her in bed happily turning the pages of one of the Moomin anthologies. It's precisely the kind of anarchic craziness combined with determined good manners and decorum that I find irresistible. Do a favor for the kid in your life -- or the kid in your heart -- and pick them up. And if you have any comics recommendations for Cady Gray, share them in the comments.

Say a little prayer for I

Today's post about what yarn wants to be is at Toxophily.

Final exam giving is over -- grading is about to begin. In the next two days I need to make a dent in reading papers and evaluating essays, scoring everything that hasn't yet been scored. And whenever I don't feel like doing that, I'll need to be writing a talk for the senior banquet on Friday. If you had a chance to say something to top-flight students who are about to walk across the stage and pick up their diplomas, what would it be?

The real world

I've been teaching for ten years. Before that, I spent five years getting a doctoral degree. Before that, I spent three years getting a master's degree. Before that, I worked for a few years. Before that, I spent four years getting a bachelor's degree. And before that, high school, elementary school, and before that, I can barely remember.

All my life, with only minor interruptions, in the warm arms of the educational system. I knew early on that it was where I belonged. It's where I excelled, and it's where what energized and excited me was to be found.

But it probably doesn't make me the best qualified person to prepare students for life outside of that insular world. Some of my students leave classes and grades behind forever when they move on from where I stay. The closest I get to a culture shock is when I venture outside of my academic unit and teach in other departments. Relatively speaking, though, that's a major shift. When you live inside, the slightest change of scenery can be a revelation.

Tomorrow I'm giving the first final exam I've give in probably five or six years. I'm out of the habit, having long since abandoned the practice of asking students to justify their learning on the final day and taken up projects that extend over several weeks. Sometimes I ask students to do presentations on final exam day, other times we just have a meal together.

Why am I giving a final exam? Why am I going to be sitting in a room for two hours while a roomful of students scribble essays in blue books -- essays that I will have to read before next Monday? I'd rather not. But things are different over in the next building. The students are different. I'm different. Not as different as night and day, or school and work. Enough, though, to make a few things clear about the situation in which I spend most of my time.

Saint Nick says giddy-up

Today's post about Christmas in the classroom is at Toxophily.

A week ago tomorrow, I popped a ligament in my ankle while running at Archer's school and ended up with a mild sprain. After a couple of days, I was out of pain unless I tried to twist it oddly. But I've also tried to rest it by taking a break from my exercise routine, including my usual Wii Fit and jogging. Now that a week is past, I'm going back to the track. My ankle is still slightly swollen and sore around the bone, with a long bruise near the sole of my foot. I won't be in the group jogging around the grounds; we'll have to stick to the slowest group on the paved track, walking and running alternately. But it's time to stop resting and start slowly making my way back toward a regimen.

Christmas music

People like to complain about Christmas music during the six-week period when you can't escape it. Piped into stores, coming over the TV and radio -- some people feel like they can't escape.

But I'm one of those people whom Christmas music puts in an instantly festive mood. Noel made his Christmas playlist available via iPod today, and we've been driving around town listening to Keely Smith, the Beach Boys, Fred Astaire, and all the other quirky classics.

A couple of our writing colleagues dissed Jose Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad" in an e-mail conversation a few weeks ago, and my heart sank a little. That's one of the songs that makes me bounce and sing under my breath no matter if I hear it in a long check-out line or in a cheesy radio mix. It's the contrast between relatively simple 4/4 beats of the verse and the soaring, propulsive syncopation of the chorus. If we don't hear that anymore because it's over-exposed, we've lost a little bit of the easy-to-come-by joy of the season.

I feel the same way about "Little St. Nick" by the Beach Boys -- who could fail to be reliably amused by the the circularity of "Christmas comes this time each year"? -- and "Jingle Bell Rock." Maybe that shows that I'm easily pleased by the little things, like that guitar hit that follows quick upon the first line of the latter song. I never get tired of those tiny touches, the ones that bring it all to life, the ones that you can treasure as your very own no matter how many millions of people are listening to that same song day after day.

Twinkling

Christmas lights are up all over town now that December is upon us. Soon we'll be headed out to the soccer fields on the outskirts of town to drive through the city's big display. Our own tree is adding its miniature pyramid of color to the mix.

I get emotional about Christmas lights. Their pinpricks of brilliance on a cold, clear night move me deeply. Wherever they appear, it seems like someone has made an outpost against the cold and dark. It's a bulwark shared with everyone who happens by. And that makes it a gift -- not a protest, not a resistance, not even a private enclave, but a public statement that we are standing together against the cold and the dark. That we have confidence.

Tonight the moon was almost full, and it rose late, as we were driving home from a party. Over the lake it appeared huge, yellow, just a sliver short of a perfect circle, slightly hazy behind very high clouds. Combined with the sky full of stars and the lights encircling houses and forming pictures on lawns, in the biting cold, it seemed a resounding statement. Of what, I'm not quite sure. But I always feel it this time of year, full of mysterious meaning, pinpricks of light radiating out into the infinite lifelessness.

Teach and be taught

Today I convened the last meeting of my process theology seminar. It was a momentous semester and a momentous course for me -- my first time teaching in what some might consider my natural department here at the university. My appointment is in the Honors College, which teaches interdisciplinary classes. But my training, and the discipline where I do most of my scholarly work, is religious studies.

This semester I exchanged places with a professor from the Department of Philosophy and Religion. He taught an interdisciplinary seminar for the Honors College. And I taught a 4000-level seminar called Readings in Process Theology.

My dissertation works within the field of process theology. Most of my publications are in that field. But I had never taught a full course on the subject before this semester.

The course was a challenge in many ways. I was working with students who weren't necessarily well versed in theology in general, or Christian theology in particular. They were students in the religious studies minor in a public university; theology was not in their purview. From our initial conversations, I gathered that half or more of those enrolled were skeptical about the relevance of Christianity and/or the rigor of theology as a discipline. In fact, as I ended up conceiving it, major objectives of the class dealt with simply appreciating the task of religious people facing the contemporary situation and trying to find some way to continue living out traditions they believed were valuable.

Today I told my students that I was grateful to have spent this semester with them. If not for this course, I wouldn't have spent so much time this semester thinking and reading in process theology week after week. And I discovered some nuances and some ideas that surprised me. I learned. I don't know if my movement from understanding to deeper and broader understanding is as large as the movement I asked the students to make, but I know that it was more significant for me than they could imagine.

I've worked steadily and published regularly in this field for a decade. But this semester re-energized my theological muscles. I think it's probably important that I teach a disciplinary class outside my home department periodically. Meanwhile my scholarship has acquired a new momentum, and my confidence and determination has notched up accordingly.

In between

We all have certain holes in our wardrobes. Ninety percent of the time, they don't bother us. But then come those days or occasions when it would really be helpful to have a particular item -- and we don't have it. We think to ourselves: "Selves, next time we get a chance, we're buying that thing. We're not going to have to go without it next time."

But then the moment passes. When we get that chance to buy it, we think to ourselves: "Selves, do we really need this? After all, ninety percent of the time we have no use for it. Surely we can do without it." And so the cycle continues.

Earlier this year, I conquered one of those pesky holes when I bought my boots. Now I'm thinking about another one. It wasn't always a hole. For the last several years, my preferred outer layer when the temperature ranges from about 50 to 70 degrees has been a Talbots slightly cropped corduroy jacket (actually a petite size) that my mother got for me once upon a time. But sometime in the spring, I lost it. And ever since, I've been frustrated on those days when it's not cold enough for my fleece jacket, but too chilly to go without all together.

I think the answer is a jean jacket; the late lamented corduroy jacket was jean-styled, and perfectly casual yet structured. But my shopping demons always strike when I'm in a position to browse for such a thing. Do I really need it? Don't I have other items already that would do? Then I get back home and remember -- nope, I don't.

So here's a gift idea: Classic jean jacket or facsimile thereof in leather or cords. Women's size 8 or medium oughta do me. You'll be saving me not only from spring and fall in-between temps, but also from my own inability to provide for myself.

Associations

Almost every day I spend some time in our front room while the kids are watching Bill Nye The Science Guy. I work on my computer, and Noel works on his from his home office on the comfy sofa.

Noel listens to music while he writes -- music he's writing about right then, music he's got to write about later, music he's catching up on while writing about something else. The other day he was listening to an advance copy of Neil Young's Dreamin' Man Live '92, a recording of a concert at which Young performed the whole Harvest Moon album.

And I was reminded of a strange association I have with Neil Young. Something about his voice and style takes me back to a family trip to North Carolina. I was just a child -- too young to remember details or have more than vague images. But I remember going to Beech Mountain and visiting the Land of Oz, a Wizard of Oz themed amusement park. I can almost see through the haze of time the yellow brick road we walked down, and the Emerald City at which we arrived. No memory of the balloon ride at the end of the show survives. But I know we bought a sweatshirt. And I know that I was puzzled at the time that this place could be a ski resort; seemed improbable in the summer heat during our visit.

That trip must have taken place in the early 70's. The park was closed by 1980. And I don't know why Neil Young singing makes me think about it. It seems unlikely that I heard any Neil Young on the trip; my parents weren't pop music people, and neither was I until much later. I think it has something to do with the unreality of it all. I can never understand how that beautiful, fragile tenor comes out of that big rough man, much less those gorgeous melodies. And yet it's grounded in the details of a rural landscape. When I am taken back to Beech Mountain by that voice, what I see is tall grass, brown in the heat of late summer, outside the gates of that odd fantasy park. Something about that image is exactly what Neil Young means to me.

Rest, ice, compression, elevation

Today's post about caps for little heads is at Toxophily.

While running with Archer at school this morning, I stepped on an uneven piece of pavement and went down, turning my ankle. Now I'm at home with a mild sprain.

I know it's mild because the last time I sprained my ankle, I couldn't keep food down because of the pain. This is nothing like that. I'm stiff and sore, my ankle has a robin's egg-sized lump on it, but I can limp along slowly with nary a grimace. A few days of hobbling around, a few weeks of taking it easy, and I'll be back running -- more carefully -- in no time.

In case North Pole snail mail service is unreliable

The kids wrote letters to Santa on Saturday while their parents were wrestling with the Christmas lights. I don't know how well the USPS is doing getting letters to the big man up north, but I imagine the elves monitor parental blogs, so just in case I'm reproducing the letters here.



Dear Santa,

I hope you don't give me a stocking of coul. I want a new toy computer for Christmas. I just love the magnatiles! [that she got for her birthday -- Ed.] I hope you have a safe trip.

Love, Cady Gray




Dear Santa,

I would like Wii game New Super Mario Bros Wii for Christmas. Please!!! Cady Gray would probably like it.

Love, Archer

Tree in images

In a burst of unaccountable energy this morning, we decided to put up the tree.



Just like me when I was her age, Cady Gray wanted to stare at the ornaments and lights, semi-hypnotized.



Some ornaments were chosen for their meaning; some we inherited; some were acquired for purely decorative reasons. Can you tell which one is which?



Our little tree gets more crowded every year. If we weren't so fond of the place where it stands -- right in our front bay window -- we might have gone to a larger size years ago.



There's no way to articulate the meaning -- or lack thereof -- of every piece to the children. Soon enough they'll grow tired of the stories that are trotted out every December.



Some characters they can recognize: Harry Potter, Hank Aaron, misfit toys from Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.



Some icons are unmistakable, and always produce delight.



And some shapes and textures and materials simply become material for abstract gazing.



Glass and mirrors catch the colored light, sending it in different directions as you move.



It's a time to pull out heirlooms and surround ourselves with Christmas past. Each year brings new additions, but the perennials form the foundation for a celebration that builds on family traditions we'll never leave behind.



Somewhere tucked deep into the tree is the newest creation to be added, made with a little girl's love just the day before. It waits like a secret to be packed up and then discovered next year -- another story added to the stockpile.

Mmm whatcha say

Today's post about a lotta sweater for a lotta man is at Toxophily.

Noel put together a little video of our Thanksgiving, complete with magical appearance of turkey and cute kids saying what they're thankful for. Check it out.

Giving thanks

I'm thankful for my grandmother's china.




I'm thankful that little girls love looking for colorful ginko leaves.




I'm thankful that they remain curious about the world around them.




I'm thankful for fall color on our table.




I'm thankful for the bird, and for Alton Brown who helped me make it perfect.




I'm thankful that they have so much to be thankful for.




I'm thankful for the happiness that overflows our lives.

Holiday onramp

For as long as I can remember, the complaint has been about how early Christmas displays start going up in the stores. This year it doesn't feel too early -- not by a long shot. Black Friday is the day after tomorrow, and even though I don't partake in that madness, I'm already starting to feel behind.

Christmas is exactly one month away. We need to get through this weekend; can't really think ahead while the festivities are in full swing here with the in-laws. Then next week is the last week of classes, and the following week is exams. Then the next week is grading and finishing up. At that point, there's one week until Christmas. Why didn't I start on everything in September?

Now, it's not like there's much to do. Noel and I made a list last week and started to brainstorm gift ideas. I'm knitting like a fiend. But there's still a sense that the season is rushing at me headlong. Or maybe what's barreling my way is next year and next semester. That's what I'm really not ready for.

Dear pen pal

To my great delight, Cady Gray has begun exchanging letters and little art projects with her old friend Soli. She probably doesn't remember Soli at all, but she's thrilled whenever something comes in the mail from her.

Cady Gray completed a "rainbow dolphin" of fuseable beads over the weekend, and then wrote a letter and drew two pictures of herself to send along with it. I managed to grab a scan of the letter before she stuffed it in the envelope. (The dolphin's color didn't scan accurately -- what looks gray is actually orange and pink.)



Dear Soli, This time I sent you a dolphin. My mom says it looks like a heat map. I just can't wait to see you this winter.

-- Cady Gray Murray

P.S. There's a picture in here.

To: My best friend,
Soli

Complicated isn't always good

I visited the library today to get a book I needed for next semester's syllabus, and while there I went to the well-stocked and well-curated children's area to see if I could pick up anything for the kids.

While looking for books about sports, to feed one of Archer's obsessions, my eye was caught by the bright colors and crinkly plastic jacket of A Book About Design by Mark Gonyea. Sometime last year I brought home its sequel, Another Book About Design, and Cady Gray and I had read through it.

This one focuses on the relationships between space, simple shapes, and color. While Noel fixed dinner, Cady Gray read it to me, howling with laughter at the pages that talked to her (sample: one page asks you to imagine two intersecting straight lines drawn through an empty square, and the next page shows the same square with the legend, "Take your time, I'll wait").

The book makes an interesting move from looking at how changing size, shape, balance, and relationships changes the overall perception of a graphic, to thinking about "importance" and how it's communicated through design. Where are your eyes drawn? What lets you know what part of the page to look at first? And if you tweak a texture over here, you have to rethink the whole thing -- because changing one thing changes everything.

I'm fascinated by design. Not being artistically inclined, I'm in awe of the way some people can see these things instinctively. And so I appreciate when someone takes the time to move the pieces around and talk about what happens.

Let me entertain you

My mother is a consummate entertainer. How many dinner parties did she hold around the big table in our special-occasions-only dining room? How many bridge nights did she host? How many nights did we kids eat at a card table set up in the den -- or on bar stools in the kitchen -- because both the dining room and the breakfast nook were occupied by my parents' friends?

I'm nowhere near that standard (as with most endeavors on which I can be compared with my mother). But I like the idea of having people over on occasion. Noel's parents are coming over for Thanksgiving, and while I have a lot of things to do between now and then -- like grading, teaching, and writing -- I'm already starting to plan the meal.

All I really have to plan is the turkey; it's my only responsibility. As the centerpiece of the meal, that means I'm the cornerstone of the entertainment edifice, or at least I flatter myself as such. Usually I'm at the American Academy of Religion meeting the week of Thanksgiving and only get home in time to thaw the turkey in the sink using the last-ditch change-the-water-every-30-minutes method. But because the conference was earlier this year, I got to move the turkey from the freezer to the fridge this morning and start dreaming about a platter garnished with apples, rosemary and sage.

I still crave the Thanksgivings of my childhood, as do we all. I want those side dishes -- my grandmother's stuffing, the pea and asparagus casserole, the apple and cranberry bake. But Noel and I put on a pretty good feed. And even though I'll never be half the hostess my mother is, I take pride in playing the part on rare occasions.

Power buy

It was a good shopping day. Longtime readers will know that I have a shopping problem. My intense buyer's remorse leads me to avoid making a decision, or even contemplating making a decision, until absolutely necessary. But sometimes, against all my expectations, shopping goes well.

The first part of the goodness I didn't even have to do myself. Noel and the kids came home from an extended trip to the grocery store with all the components of our Thankgiving feast. Bags of turkey, vegetables, garnishes, herbs, and pie. Unpacking the car, I began to anticipate the brining and the cooking and all the preparations. Thanksgiving joy arrived with those bags of food.

Tonight Noel and I had a babysitter, but no movies in town that we wanted to see. So Noel had the bright idea of going to the local huge furniture gallery after our dinner out to look for new family room seating and some storage. Our leather sectional is in bad shape and needs replacing, and we've been thinking about replacing it with two recliners and a loveseat. Our foyer also needs a console of some kind where we can store games.

I thought it was a fine way to spend time, but I didn't have high hopes of seeing what we needed. But it turned out there were a lot of pieces that would work for us. The salespeople were helpful but not pushy. The prices were right.

I started to envision sitting in the recliners watching basketball with friends on the loveseat. I saw the sideboard against that blank wall in our entryway, Sorry and Trivial Pursuit and cribbage stacked up behind its glass doors.

The money's not spent, the delivery's not arranged, the dinner's not made. But it feels like life is on the upswing. One more notch upward on the livability scale for our home. Eventually.

Game night

My lovely teaching assistant is throwing a party tonight for our freshman students -- pizza and games. When we asked in class what games, she threw out some choices -- Scene It, Cranium, and Telephone Pictionary.

A student immediately requested Scene It, which is a DVD game about identifying movies. I confidently replied that they don't want to be playing me in Scene It. Actually, I've never played the game, but you know, I've had a few more years on this earth to see movies compared to these 18-year-olds. Plus, movies are a part of my job, and a lot of my husband's job. I know something about movies.

I'm competitive. When I play games, I like to win; and if I can't win, I like to be in the game. In a way, playing a game like Scene It, where I'd be expected to do well, there's no way to come out on top. If I win, it's nothing special; if I don't, it's embarrassing. Really, the only way to have fun in that scenario is to stay out altogether.

One of my students told me that in her house, anybody with a negative attitude during a game has to wear "the bitter hat." Let me tell you, I'd be wearing the bitter hat much of the time. I tend to complain vocally about bad luck and to whine about being far behind. Of course, I also crow unmercifully when I'm ahead. In short, I'm probably not much fun around the card table.

Yet although I sometimes enter into games unwillingly -- because they represent a chance to lose, and not much to be gained -- I really enjoy competing. It's painful for me to stay out of a game. I'm lucky if I can find good partners and good sports to play with me. And I should remember to be thankful when they do -- especially if they come back for more.

Let the circle be unbroken

Last year a student came to me for help in forming a knitting club for the Honors College. This student, who happens to be from Japan, knew that a growing number of her peers were knitting and crocheting, and that many more were expressing interest in learning.

I thought it was a great idea -- what knitter wouldn't want a knitting circle started in her workplace? But something was standing in the way. It's just my own neurosis, I'm sure, but I couldn't start the group until we had a good name. Luckily a student suggested Knitwise. Perfect -- now we could move forward.

We've had a great semester in Knitwise. A number of people have stopped by to learn how to knit, and then become regulars at our Thursday afternoon meetings. I've seen students go from never having handled needles, to making useful (and beautiful) objects. I've seen students become almost as obsessed with knitting as I am. And other students have become the teachers and mentors of the group. Still others stop in from time to time to revive their skills or just socialize.

I have big plans for this group. I'd like to bring in guests for demonstrations; run workshops to teach techniques; work together on charity projects; introduce them to Ravelry. But all of that can wait. Right now we're all just plopping down on couches, talking yarn and needles and hooks, discussing projects, helping each other with finishing, complimenting progress, oohing and ahhing over the astonishing work we're producing. It's quite enough to share that with a few students, adding stitch by stitch to my own projects, and dreaming about the power of one crafter added to another and to another. About the circle creating, expanding, developing its own gravity, and spreading change one beautiful, functional, warm object at a time.

Found in translation

It's been a cold, wet week. My spirits haven't been at their highest; my energy level has taken a hit. But life got a little brighter when a friend pointed out that you can change Facebook's settings to communicate with you in "English (Pirate)."

Not everyone appreciates the delightful practice of sprinkling one's discourse with "scurvy dogs," "keelhaul the landlubber," and "by Davy Jones' locker." But someone at Facebook certainly does. Switch your language to piratical and your posts become your scribblin's, events become grog fests, and the help command becomes "Mayday!"

The transformation is disturbingly thorough. Instead of viewing pictures of yourself contributed by others, you "spy me bewitched portraits." I'm not married to Noel Murray, I'm anchored to him. Status updates are timestamped "12 shots of rum ago" or "'bout 5 turns o' t' hourglass ago" (and in my case, they're "fired from" Ping.fm). And instead of liking a posted item, you click "Arrr, this be pleasin' to me eye."

Best of all, the e-mails you get from "Ye olde Facebook" don't alert you to friend requests or comments on your status updates; they convey demands for you to be mateys and ask that you confirm that ye sailed with the potential hearty, and let you know that somebody flapped their gums about one o' your recent tales.

Even more than the inventiveness and comprehensiveness of the translation, I meditate on the creative labor involved. Somebody, or a few somebodies, channeled a heck of a lot of pirate in programming the makeover. It warms my cockles that such transcendently useless labor still has a place. Although I suppose it's not surprising that the place is Facebook.

Whistle while you work

My office can only be entered by going through a main reception area and a small work/copy room. In a way, my office is part of the main office for my department. It doesn't have a separate door that opens onto a hallway.

That may be why I rarely play music while I work. If I'm in the office on a holiday or when there are very few other people around, I'll fire up the iPod on the computer speakers. If I need to watch a YouTube video, I'll stick headphones into the computer. But generally I work in silence. It rarely occurs to me to listen to music. I work with one ear cocked to the murmur of conversation outside my door, from staff to students to other faculty coming in and out, faxing things, using the copier, asking questions, getting their mail.

There's something private -- or maybe the word is "indulgent" -- about having a soundtrack for one's work. In an office setting, knocking on the door or walking into the room and having to pause while the person turns down the volume or takes out the earbuds, gives me the feeling of having intruded on a personal moment.

Worse, though, is being intruded upon. Invariably when I've put my earbuds on to listen to a podcast or hear the sound to a video, someone pokes their head through my door and asks me a question. Sitting with my back to them, facing the computer screen, it's not immediately obvious to my visitor that I'm in a different sonic landscape. I have to click pause and pull out the earbuds before turning around to ask them to repeat themselves, a process that takes a few seconds. In that time it's become clear that they've mistaken my availability, and there's an embarrassed moment as they apologize, and as I assume the attitude that I was perfectly justified to be watching that Lady Gaga video. (Seriously, it was for a discussion about Nietzsche.)

My work soundtrack is work itself, and that sets me apart, I imagine, from my A.V. Club colleagues. What about you?

There's a chill

This morning when I awoke, the temperature was sixty degrees. It was spitting rain, so Archer's running club was canceled. By noon a chilly wind was forcing everyone to clasp their jackets tight across their bodies.

A cold front rolled through during the day. One of Cady Gray's teachers observed, to her amusement, that it was fall in the morning and winter in the afternoon. (I had to explain to her that she didn't mean it literally.)

Even when the seasons change as gradually as they possibly can, there's always a moment where it happens far too suddenly, and you aren't ready. I had my warmest, softest sweater, but I was wishing for a hat and scarf. The gray skies and persistent mist made me feel even colder, and I cursed the crisp fall weather than seemed to have deserted me without warning.

The sudden cold has its good side, though. All at once you're reminded of how wonderful it is to walk into a warm house, or to feel the heat starting to seep up from the floorboards of a car. I had moments today when I fantasized about starting up the fireplace. But then again, I was reminded that the last time we had a fire going it, it was because the heater had conked out. Time to call the man so that I won't have to wear those warm sweaters indoors this season.

By any other name

Every few days, I spend half an hour or so welcoming newcomers to Ravelry. I've been a volunteer on the Ravelry Welcome Wagon for almost two years. The job involves sending personalized messages to everyone who has joined the site in the last few days -- in my case, everyone who chose a username beginning with G. (That's how the Wagoneers divide up labor.)

As I go through the list, I type a lot of names into my personalized message. And it's interesting what people choose to represent themselves. Since I welcome the G names, I see a lot of variations on Grandma (g-ma, granny, gran, etc.), often with a name or a number of grandchildren attached. I see many usernames that start with "girl" or "grrl."

Names run in cycles, of course. Not many people my age and younger have my name; it seems to have been popular in the generation just previous to mine. I watch popular names come and go as cohorts of students arrive in my classes. Monica was popular eighteen years ago, and Ashley has been big for half a decade now.

My name is dear to me because it's based on my father's name. I use some form of it as my username on most sites -- but not on Ravelry. When I got my invitation (you needed one back then), I spent several agonizing minutes trying to figure out the perfect username to present myself to my fellow knitters. I finally settled on my favorite fictional character. And I've tremendously enjoyed answering to that name.

What name would you choose if you could? What name do you choose when you have the chance?

Under the weather

I've been vaguely sick ever since I got back from Washington, D.C. It's just a cold, and not even a bad one at that. But it just keeps moving around, from the top of my head at first, now to just inside my throat.

When I have a cold, I get really, really hungry. I feel like eating all the time, and the only thing that makes me feel halfway normal is if I'm full. Not surprisingly, I get tired easily, and want to curl up in bed for long hours. And nothing feels better than a hot shower.

Thankfully, I haven't been so uncomfortable that it's stopped me for a second doing what my work, either here or away. But that in itself has worn me down. I'm ready for some down time. Yet I spent the day on stage, teaching my part-time Methodist pastors. It was wonderful, but I'm exhausted. My energy is drained.

It would be nice to have a sick day -- a "bed day," we call them in this house. If my throat and head feel any worse, I might find a way to take one. It's been ages since I've canceled class because of illness; I just don't get sick that often. But is that a license to take a mental health day when I don't absolutely have to? Additionally, Noel has been on point for more than two weeks, taking care of kids and home while I've flown around North America. He deserves a vacation more than I do.

But you can't always control where your stress comes from. I've enjoyed myself tremendously over the last few weeks, but it's as if I've had no days off; every day has been work. Yes, you could look at what I've done and argue that it shouldn't have taken so much out of me, but the fact is, I'm run down. How much relaxation and recuperation can I build into the next few weeks -- the last of the semester, and the beginning of the holidays?

True love

I brought Cady Gray a present from my Montreal trip -- a plush Quatchi, the sasquatch in the trio of mascots for the Vancouver Olympics.



As is her wont when presented with new stuffed animals, Cady Gray loved Quatchi immediately. She embraced him, presented him to her dad, and professed her desire to sleep with him always "because I only sleep with my best friends."

Today she took Quatchi to school for show-and-tell. If I gather correctly, she mentioned that he is from "Vancouver Olympics 2010," that he's a sasquatch wearing earmuffs, and that her mom brought him home from Canada.

But love is pleasure mixed with pain, as we all know. There came the inevitable evening, the night after Cady Gray and Quatchi first met, when the little girl came padding out of her bedroom half an hour after lights out. She hesitated before telling us what she wanted; "Just say it," her dad urged. Her face crumpled in on itself and her voice rose to a wail: "I can't FIND QUATCHI!"

We immediately comforted her and located her little friend kicked under the bed. But even if he'd been gone forever, better to have loved and lost a sasquatch than never to have loved a sasquatch at all.

I'll take the bus this time

Tonight I shepherded twenty students down to Little Rock to attend a lecture by Joel Salatin, renegade farmer. The lecture was plenty entertaining, and the students were enthusiastic. But riding back on the bus in the dark, all I could think about was the feeling of the many bus rides I took when I was their age and younger.

The rattle and the darkness, the roar of the engine, took me back immediately to bus trips like the ones I took during winter break with the fellow members of my high school glee club. Driving through the long dark evenings from stop to stop, sitting with my best friends, listening to my Walkman, and staring out at the night ... it's an indelible feeling of being alone with my thoughts.

I've always been able to hypnotize myself by unfocusing my eyes and letting the moving scenery outside a car window blur into impressionist colors. At night, though, I follow lights, idly wondering what they are or making tentative identifications. Meditating on the moment's emotions, I feel like a teenager again, the owner of a rich inner life unknown to those whose cars and houses, twinkling with light, I pass.

It's a strange feeling to return to that immature -- yet deeply felt -- stage. I'm reminded that having a rich inner life is also about doubting yourself, not knowing who you are. But retreating into reverie while riding through the night is a pleasant fantasy, an escape to a time at once simpler and much more complicated.

Real life

The A.V. Club's best of the decade coverage kicks off this week with television lists spearheaded by my very own husband. I contributed to some of the lists, but not the one on reality shows that Noel produced solo, running today.

The comments on this list have been particularly interesting. Earlier lists focused on miniseries and late-night television, but the reality show list has provoked protests that reality television is not worthy of critical attention or celebration.

Reality television is truly the genre of the decade, and yes, there's a case to be made that it's the scourge of the medium as well. But are we still so bitter about the decline of scripted television that we can't recognize some of the more interesting, creative, and even compelling reality series? I find myself talking to many of my colleagues and other educated people about popular culture, and among those who admit to watching television, most express great surprise that I would enjoy Top Chef or The Amazing Race.

The opposite is true among professional TV watchers, who recognize these shows as the class of the genre. Even some of them, though, scorn the talent competitions and offbeat follow-people-around shows as unworthy of consideration.

Me, I'll take drama, comedy, pathos, and entertainment where I can find it, and even though reality television has a tendency toward manufacturing all those elements when they're not actually happening in front of the camera, that doesn't mean that nothing of interest happens on those shows. To the contrary, I enjoy cheering for actual competent people doing things that I can't do (as on the cooking and fashion designing shows, for example), and I enjoy gasping at the machinations of people scheming to be the last ones standing on the Survivor-type shows. Yes, I'm as disgusted as anyone by the whoring-after-fame that proliferates among the would-be celebrities that apply for some of the shows, both reputable and sleazy. But as Noel points out in his piece, many of these shows represent the last vestige of a mass medium that actually unites us as a contrary, something everyone has an opinion on, weekly events that leave you out of the water-cooler conversation if you choose to forgo them. And it's hard to overestimate the power of that possibility in an increasingly fractured media landscape.

Breaking through

When I went online to check in for my flight to Montreal, the site flagged my return itinerary as problematic. "The schedule of your flights has changed, and you may miss your connection," a yellow warning box asserted, and the layover time in Cincinnati was highlighted -- arrive at 4:05, leave at 4:55. I couldn't figure out how a fifty-minute layover could be a problem, so I ignored it.

But when I got to Montreal I realized that the problem might be customs. If I had to clear immigration before getting on the connecting flight, fifty minutes might not be enough. So I called the airline on Saturday morning from the hotel, and changed the itinerary; now I was flying to Atlanta instead of Cincinnati, and the layover was eighty minutes.

This morning when I got to the airport, the agent at the check-in counter noticed that the itinerary had changed, and asked why. I explained about the customs issue, and she noted, as she gave me my boarding passes, that I would actually go through customs right there in Montreal before I got on my first flight. I hadn't needed to make the change at all.

And I was flying into Atlanta now -- Atlanta, where the torrential rain ahead of Tropical Storm Ida was falling. The weather was horrendous as we landed, with rain, wind, and low dark clouds. I found my next flight on the monitors: already delayed forty-five minutes. And the board was full of canceled and delayed notices.

But I saw that the previous flight to Little Rock, the one that was supposed to have left thirty minutes earlier, was listed as "At Gate." It was all the way at the other end of the terminal, but I thought it was worth a shot. The flight was boarding as I got to the counter, and I managed to get the busy agent to put me on the standby list. Ten minutes later, I was walking onto the flight -- thirty minutes before my original flight was supposed to leave.

The ascent through the storm was long and dark. For three quarters of an hour, we bumped along in a constant cloud. I was knitting my Noro socks and listening to my iPod on shuffle. Finally I heard some familiar electronic noise -- the opening to ELO's "Shine A Little Love." As those dramatic, joyful chords began the song, we burst out of the clouds into the brilliant sunshine, a rosy-tinged afternoon sliding toward evening. It was a perfect ending to the day, a private panorama in my ears and my eyes, a little something just for me, like so many of the pleasures of solitary travel.

A late hour

The night is late, the parties have been many, the kindness of my colleagues has been infinite in returning me safely to my bed. They have my gratitude.

Tomorrow I will make my way to the airport and God willing, to home. I am reminded how much we depend on the kindness of strangers to overlook our faults and errors, and point us in the right direction, along the way. Thank God for travelers' mercies, and I hope I will be embracing my children before I next write to you. Bon voyage, all you AAR travelers!

Mastery

I enjoy feeling competent. I think that I get the biggest kick out of life when I'm able to perform some relatively complex task ably and well.

Being at the American Academy of Religion conference sometimes scratches my competence itch. I generally know what people are talking about at the sessions I attend, something I could not have asserted reliably a decade ago. I have gotten plenty of positive feedback about my leadership and administrative capabilities since I joined the board of directors, and that makes me get the competence buzz when I negotiate some complex issue or contribute to the governance conversation.

Yesterday morning I began the day with a call to Delta reservations because my connection heading home via Cincinnati was a little too tight for comfort, given the need to clear customs and immigrations before boarding the next flight. Before I knew it, I had a new itinerary with a more generous time allowance. Even though I didn't do anything but call a number and explain my problem, that made me feel like an adult who knew how to handle these kinds of situations.

And after a day riding the Metro, and a subsequent day walking back and forth from hotel to convention center to other hotel via both surface streets and the Montreal Underground City, I feel the glow of competence suffusing my being. I look like a Canadian, I flatter myself, in my chunky knit accessories and practical boots. And I walk with the purposeful stride of a native through the twists and turns of the shopping centers, subway stations, and building basements that comprise the underground labyrinth connecting the whole central city.

I suppose that reveals my implicit standard of competence: native fluency. In some ways I've spent my life trying to move from the outside looking in, to some reasonable approximation of the mannerisms, and some reasonable claim to the privileges of, the native. I'm just an animal looking for a home. And it gives me inordinate pleasure to be home, or to pass for someone who is at home, in a city, a school of thought, a discipline, a community.

Montreal yarn crawl

I attended an (ungodly) 7:30 am breakfast meeting this morning, and after that was done, it hit me: Today was the day. Many stores are closed Monday, some are also closed on Sunday. If I were going to canvas the yarn stores of Montreal, it had to be today.

So at 9:30 am, after returning to the hotel to grab my scribbled directions and gird up my loins generally, I was off. My goal: Five yarn stores and back by 4 pm for the first plenary panel of the conference.

My first stop was Effiloché, a lovely and welcoming store that just happened to open earlier than any of the others. I inaugurated my souvenir purchases with a locally-dyed yarn: Tanis Fiber Arts Blue Label fingering weight in an appropriate overcast Moss colorway. (No pictures because at this point I hadn't remembered my determination to take them.)

Next on my list was A La Tricoteuse Laine, a well-ordered store tailored more for buying than browsing or socializing. There I bought Les Laines Oberlyn, a Quebecois DK weight in a rich red.

On the way back to the Metro I entered a monastery chapel where mass was underway; several nuns and monks made their way back to where I was standing and offered me the peace.

Stop #3: Tricot Quartier. I walked about a kilometer down beautiful wide streets in an upscale neighborhood before finding this storefront in a walkup. Not enough luxury sock yarn to pique my interest, really, but I left with some Regia Hand-Dyed Effekt.







I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Ariadne Knits, a friendly place where a carding class was in full swing when I entered. My selection was a couple of skeins of O-Wool Classic 2-Ply in a cheerful green. (The staff was equally as friendly when I had to return 30 minutes later because I'd left my camera in the store.)






And my last stop, perhaps the most impressive yarn store I visited in Montreal, Mouliné. The staff chatted knowledgeably about Ravelry, the stock was mind-boggling, and I came away with a Crazy Zauerball in addition to the Malabrigo Sock I had already settled on.

Now that the yarn crawl is out of the way, it's all business from here on out. But what a way to begin -- a cold day, a Metro ride all over town and back, knitters and knitwear everywhere you turn, and beautiful yarn both local and imported from far-flung lands. Merci, Montreal!