Security folder

At the beginning of the semester, I gave each of my first year students a manilla folder. "It's your portfolio," I said. "Guard it with your life. " I told them that no student of mine has ever lost a folder, and I didn't want one of them to be the first. They nodded seriously. Most of the students bring the manilla folder to every class, and many doodle on the outside cover during class discussions.

By the time I collected the folders last week, they were no long clean and new looking. They were worn on the edges, heavily decorated, and filled with papers. I could recognize which folder belonged to which student without even looking at the name on the tab. Each portfolio contained a dozen short response papers, a stack of freewrites, two formal papers, some rough drafts, some creative writing, and a reflection paper. I carried the stack of folders home and kept them for several days, taking my time to reread some of the papers before assigning each student a midterm grade.

In class, one student announced that she had woken up that morning, looked for her folder, and couldn't find it. "I totally panicked," she said, "I was going crazy." She was ripping apart the whole room, searching desperately for it when her roommate woke up and reminded her that I had it. "I felt so relieved," she said. I laughed at the story, but other students nodded in sympathy.

When I returned the folders, the students seemed eager to get them back. One student sighed in relief; another hugged hers possessively, tucking it under her arm like a security blanket. One young man smiled fondly at his folder before sliding it into his backpack. "Some of my best writing is in here."

Listening to clouds

Sometimes, even on a busy day, when I've got papers to grade and groceries to buy and a long list of things to do, I have to stop the car and step into cold air to listen to clouds moving toward me.

A is for Amazing Woman!

A recent conversation with my sixteen-year-old son made me realize, once again, how often the efforts of high school English teachers go unrewarded.

Me: Hey, did anyone at your school dress up for Halloween this year?
Shaggy Hair: Lots of kids did. And some of the teachers.
Me: Any good costumes?
Shaggy Hair: They were lame.
Shaggy Hair: Ms. English Teacher dressed as Hester Prynne.
Me: Oh, that's clever. Since you all had to read The Scarlet Letter over the summer.
Shaggy Hair: Kids didn't really get it.
Me: What did she wear?
Shaggy Hair: An old-fashioned dress and the letter A pinned to her chest.
Me: Well, that should have been a dead give-away.
Shaggy Hair: Not really. Kids were saying, "Why does Ms. English Teacher have a letter pinned to her chest? Is she supposed to be some kind of superhero?"

Spreading roots

It wasn't the best weather for tree planting: temperatures near freezing and a cold rain. But the community service project had been planned months ago. When we — that is, me and thirty college students — arrived at the site, the other volunteers were already gathered in circles, drinking coffee and waiting for instructions from the group leaders. We'd come to an old neighborhood in a hilly section of Snowstorm City, the Irish section of town. On this hill, the green light on the traffic signal is on the top and not the bottom, thanks to a local tradition started by the Irish immigrants who settled here years ago.

The volunteers seemed mostly to be retired people who lived in the neighborhood, probably about the right age to be grandparents to my college students. As the students picked up shovels, pick axes, and rakes, eager to get started, an elderly man with a headful of white hair and a red fleece vest turned to me and said with a smile, "It's nice to have this infusion of young energy."

Long Island Student had brought the bag of gloves that Cheery Administrator at Little Green always sends with us on community service projects. They are apparently, all-purpose gloves. No matter what project we are doing — painting a shelter, clearing brush, taking water samples, planting trees, working at a soup kitchen — we're given this same bag of brown cloth gloves. None of us have ever quite figured out what exactly the gloves are for, but today we decided that we'd wear them for warmth.

The trees had already been delivered to spots in the neighborhood, most of them to planted in the bit of lawn between the sidewalks and the road. Soon every group was hard at work, digging holes, spreading the roots, backfilling with dirt, tapping dirt down, and staking the newly planted trees with wire. Even though it was early, the cold air had woken everyone up, and all kinds of joking accompanied the work. The students worked quickly to plant the trees they'd been assigned, finishing way ahead of schedule, and then began checking to see what other groups needed help.

I heard the lead organizer say into her cell phone, "Okay, we've got this roving band of forestry students with shovels and pickaxes. Do you need any help over there?"

The sun came out as we walked back, admiring all the new trees that were standing sturdily now, with guy wires in place to protect them from the fierce winter winds. We passed lovely old homes and several Irish pubs. At one house, two little kids who pressed their faces against the glasses and waved at us were rewarded with all kinds of silly antics from the college students.

As we climbed back onto the bus, our work done, students called goodbyes to the other volunteers. One student said, as she settled into her seat, "We'll have to come back in the spring to see if these trees flower."

First snow

It came late this year. Usually we get snow before Halloween. And all we got yesterday was a dusting, just enough to stick to car windshields and fence posts. The ground isn't frozen yet so anything that landed on the grass just melted away. But still, it's a warning, a signal to get out the winter coats and mittens, the long underwear and wool socks. It's time to sign up for those ski passes, check to see if everyone's snowboard boots fit. Time to put snow tires on the car, get the snow shovels out. Winter is coming.

Beneath the pier

Last Saturday, on a dark and rainy afternoon, I escaped from the conference I was attending to walk with Artist Friend to the waterfront of City By the Sea. Some kind of storm was hitting the coast, with high winds and a drenching rain. But we both like walking in the rain, and we had an hour to spare before the evening plenary session. Big puddles were already forming in the narrow, brick-lined streets, and the bright yellow leaves on the sidewalks seemed to glow as we made our way to the waterfront. The little shops were filled with corny tourist gifts, cool model sailboats, and warm light that spilled out the windows and doors.

Sailboats and motorboats were covered and tied to the docks, the masts rocking in the wind. The tide was low, so as we walked down along the floating dock, we could look right under the pier. The big pilings looked spooky in the dimness of late afternoon, and water came rushing down through the planks, dripping, trickling, splashing, like a waterfall run through a sieve. Even though my sneakers were soaked, we walked several blocks down to see a big cruise ship, a most gigantic ship, that was trapped in the harbor by the storm. We could see the lit rooms of the ship, with passengers moving about, probably talking excitedly about the events of the day. We walked back through gale force winds, too cold even to talk, before retreating to the warm art museum where food and colleagues awaited us.

When I woke up on Sunday morning, having slept soundly even though I was in a strange hotel, I looked at the clock on my bedside table and wondered why it didn't match the time on my cell phone. That's when I realized that thanks to Daylight Savings Time, I had a whole bonus hour! I knew immediately how I wanted to spend that hour.

The storm from the night before had disappeared, and the docks were striped with shadows and sunshine. I could hear seagulls calling, and the air smelled of salt and fish. In the morning brightness, I walked up and down the docks, stopping to examine the boats and deciding which one I'd choose for myself, settling at last on a sailboat with a bright red hull. It was bigger than the sailboats I'm used to, but I just loved the lines and the brilliant color. I found a spot where I could sit quietly in the morning sun, breathing in the blue sky and seaweed smell, a few moments to myself before returning to the conference.



That's me in the brown coat. Photo taken by Artist Friend.

Conference by the sea

Although I love going to panels and hearing speakers, my favorite part of an academic conference is seeing old friends and meeting new people. I'm an extrovert who just thrives on the endless opportunities to socialize. Some of my colleagues are close friends whom I only get to see once or twice each year, so I try to make the most of my conference time, even if that means subjecting myself to sleep deprivation.

It's great to hug friends after months limited to emails or phone calls. Artist Friend had grown a beard since I'd seen him in June, a fact that he had not mentioned in any of his emails. A beard! I kept rubbing it to see if it was real. Of course, my big worry was that the sea captain look would cause him to sing sea chanties, a worry that has more grounding in reality than you might think, but luckily, no opportunity for macho singing arose. Philadelphia Guy, who had long hair when I first met him but who has since cut it short, keeps assuring me that he will grow his hair long again as soon as he moves to his next job. It's the main reason I am rooting for him to be successful in his job search.

Songbird and her Amazing Blogging Dog weren't the only bloggers I met while I was in City With Sailboats and Seafood Restaurants; several bloggers attended the conference. Because I've gotten so loose about pseudonymity (and by "loose" I mean that I announced the name of my top-secret pseudonymous blog at my session), I am not going to give even the pseudonyms of the bloggers I met. At least one of them is on the job market, which is when bloggers are most paranoid about being outed. But I will say that it was fun to lapse into blogspeak with colleagues in the know. And I had a most wonderful time getting to know a blogger whom I've known since the my earliest days of blogger, who was as smart and fun as I thought she'd be. She reminded me of my daughter, which is the highest compliment I can give.

The double identity of the blogging world brought me the usual confusion. One of the bloggers was named Joe in real life, and every time someone said his name, I would turn and answer, thinking that we were using pseudonyms. At one session I attended, the panel included Smart Friendly Blogger, a blogger I've known for years, and Artist Friend, who is, of course, a character on my blog. At my own session, I mentioned that the most of the pieces I was reading had begun as blog posts, and that led to a lively discussion of blogging. It felt very much like the late hours of a Halloween party when people start throwing down their masks and taking off parts of their costumes.

The reputation of my posting nude photos on my blog seems to follow me from conference to conference. I was eating with a bunch of my male colleagues one night when Philadelphia Guy nudged me, "Hey, you could probably get one of them to pose nude for your blog."

I made the offer. The man to my left, Polish Accent and Ponytail, laughed and shrugged, "Sure. Just buy me a few drinks first." He stripped off his shirt right then and there to show me his tattoos, which prompted colleagues all around me to pull off items of clothing to show THEIR tattoos. Who would have expected so many tattoos amongst a bunch of academics? Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, I didn't have my camera with me, because the owner of the place was already giving us suspicious looks.

Of course, the jokes about nude photos led to all kinds of bizarre discussions. Sharp Guy, who works in West Coast City Famous for a Proliferation of Movie Stars talked about how the biggest industry in his area is porn; in every class he teaches, at least one student will have a some kind of connection to the porn industry. Somehow, we jumped from porn to sports, everyone chiming in about the influence sports teams have at their school. I had no sports anecdotes to offer, since Little Green doesn't have any sports teams, but I did brag to them that I work at the forestry college that has the best Woodsmen's team in the country. (And we do -- our students know how to use chainsaws and axes.)

Sharp Guy gave me a startled look. "You know what a Woodsman is, right? It's a porn term."

Apparently, everyone knew that except me. He explained that a Woodsman is sort of a stunt double, hired usually for his ability to keep a certain body part rigid.

These are the things that I learn at conferences.

Naked blogger

The one thing I regret about my stay in City That Smells Like French Fries and Seafood and Salt Air was that I didn't have a chance to meet Songbird's sometimes-blogging husband, Pure Luck. I think he and I would get along quite well since we both like hiking and deep philosophical conversations, two pastimes that go together beautifully. I know my readers are disappointed that he wasn't in town because my not-so-secret plan was to convince him to pose naked. Those of us who have seen photos of Pure Luck know that he has great legs, and I think a nude photo of him would have brought this blog all kinds of traffic.

But luckily, another blogger from the Songbird household stepped up to the plate. Big Friendly Dog, it turns out, runs around naked on the beach all the time, and she was willing to pose for any number of photos. Most of them turned out blurry because she was a bit too enthusiastic about rolling about for the camera or giving the photographer kisses, but still, this is a milestone for this blog. Naked dog photos.

Kidnapped

I had intended to go to every session of the academic conference, even though the panels were held in hotel rooms without windows or natural light. The sessions went from 8 a.m. until about 10 p.m. at night, and the conference program included things to do every moment of the day, even going so far as to instruct us to be awake at 2 a.m. to change our clocks. I had intended to follow that rigorous schedule for three days. I had intended to spend every break in the lobby of the hotel, mingling with suit-wearing coffee-drinking academic folks. I had even brought a blazer.

I was going to behave this time like a serious academic.

But on Friday morning, a station wagon pulled up in front of the hotel. I had stepped outside for just a moment, just to long enough to notice that the sun was shining and the sky was the kind of deep blue that happens only in the fall. I fully intended to go right back to yet another session on the Critique of the Ambiguity of the Convergence of Cybernetics as Cultural Symbols and the Subversion of Self in the Spatial Reframing of the Embodied Notion of the Pathological Immanence or Operative Aftereffects of the Ways in Which Mice Code Reality.

But I was no match for the occupants of the station wagon, a tiny woman and her two huge furry attack dogs, who smothered me with hugs and forced me to spend the afternoon playing along the shore in the bright sun and salty air.

I've long wanted to meet Songbird; it seems like we've been blogging friends forever. She's just what I imagined; warm, soft-spoken, quick to laugh, full of interesting stories and compassionate responses. We had a most wonderful afternoon, beginning with lunch in a cute cafe that served vegetarian sandwiches. She gave me a tour of City by the Sea, telling me all kinds of historical tidbits and anecdotes about the landmarks we were passing. We walked along a promenade and played with the dogs on a beach that smelled wonderfully of seaweed and salt water.

And of course, we talked pretty much non-stop, chatting happily about our kids, our husbands, our blogs, and all of the kinds of things old friends discuss. Songbird kept patting me, as if to see if I was real, which is exactly what I do when I meet a blogger. We'd hug each other and say ridiculous things like, "Oh, your hair smells nice." There's just something about finally meeting a friend in person! I was quite jealous of how thick and curly her hair was; I think if she grew it long, she would look very much like my Shaggy Hair Boy.

The only real surprise about the meetup were the two dogs. I'd seen photos of them, and I thought I knew what they looked like. But they were both way bigger than I thought. They are seriously huge dogs and just unbelievably furry and friendly.

The time went by quickly. I kept saying things like, "I really should get back to the conf— oh, stop here! Let's take photos! Can you take me to a lighthouse?"

By the time we drove back to my hotel, the two big furry dogs were flopped down in the back of the vehicle, exhausted from running about in the sunshine and salty air. I myself felt saturated with sunshine and talk. The November wind on the shore had swept the stale hotel air out of my brain. As Songbird and I hugged goodbye, we were both already planning what kinds of things we might do the next time we get together.

On the road again

I've been home only for a couple days, and I've spend most of that time trying frantically to catch up with the long to-do lists on my desk. It's advising week on campus, and I've been trying to see as many students as possible. Because early this morning, I leave again, this time for a conference.

I am looking forward to meeting new people, seeing old friends, exploring a city. I'll be going to concurrent sessions and listening to plenary speakers. And it's possible I may run into a blogger or two ....