All this Pudding

Chickens Come First

2011-12-03T04:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday in after-school tutorials, one of my students, Danny, asked me where to find a certain passage in the play we've been reading. He was retaking a test and needed to refer to part of the play. Annoyed at his laziness, I told him to find it himself. He became frustrated and said he had to go soon, but I remained firm.

A few minutes later, I heard what sounded like a bird chirping outside my door. I knew it must be Mark, a student that makes the perfect imitation of a bird chirping. He does this so often he doesn't even know he's doing it. I looked up, saying, "Here comes Mark." To my surprise, it wasn't Mark that walked through the door; it was Brandon -- with a box of cheeping chicks. I jumped up in delight and began pulling them out of the box, kissing them and fawning all over them. I didn't even ask why he had them or anything -- I was just so excited to be cuddling baby chicks for the first time in my life.

Well, after a few minutes, my classrom phone rang. I asked a student named Greg to get it for me, since it was closer to him. He answered the phone and after a pause, said in a formal and apologetic tone, "She's holding a chicken right now."

I set the chicken down and hurried over to the phone. It was another teacher, whose first sentence was "He said you're holding a chicken?!"

"Yes, I was," I said, but she went into her reason for calling without asking any more about it.

Once off the phone, I went back to the chicks. After a few more minutes of croons and kisses, the chicks suddenly began pecking at my hands, then at each other. It looked like the box was about to become a cock-fighting ring. I asked what was wrong with them and Brandon said, "They're hungry!"

"Well, feed them!" I said, distressed.

"We have to go get the food!" He explained. "I'm waiting for Danny!" (Danny and Brandon are both FFA kids.)

I turned to Danny. "You need to feed those chickens!"

"That's why I needed to find that passage! Because I have to leave to get the food!"

"Put that test down and go get those chicks some food!" I exclaimed. "You don't need to be in here taking a test when those chicks are hungry! You can finish it another day!"

He quickly put the test away and he and Danny booked it before I could scold them any longer.

Good grief. I may be an English teacher but I'd shove Shakespeare in a ditch before I'd let a tiny, yellow, fluffy, cheeping bit of cuteness go hungry.

Pub Quiz Mystery

2011-07-10T19:50:00.000-07:00

In our trip to the UK the past two weeks, my husband Richie and my cousin Jeremy and I got in on a pub quiz in York. We weren't really interested at first, so we didn't take any answer sheets, but to pass the time I went ahead and started writing down the answers on my own sheet of paper. I started with number one, so we didn't miss any. Around number 15, I believe, I heard the lady calling out the questions skip to 17 or something. I can't remember the exact numbers, but I know she skipped at least two. As Richie was at the bar, I looked to Jeremy for confirmation that I had heard correctly, and he agreed she had skipped a couple numbers. I expected some participant in the quiz to correct her or ask about it, but nobody said anything. The lady went on calling out questions. She continued in order to number 25, then suddenly she skipped to 29. Again, this anomaly was confirmed by both Jeremy and Richie, and again nobody corrected the lady or asked about the skipped numbers. I could only assume 1) the quiz worked in some odd way we weren't familiar with that the locals were or 2) somebody would point out the mistake before the lady called out the answers, maybe ask what the number to those questions were.

However, that never happened. The questions stopped at 30, and then the lady began calling out the answers. I waited curiously for her to get to the numbers she had skipped. I was positive that when she called out those answers, somebody in the pub would protest and say she had never even given the questions. Instead, when she DID get to those numbers 16-18, 26-28, I remembered those questions being called out. By the end of the answers, I realized that every answer she had called out had been to a question that I had, in fact, heard her ask. What's more, Jeremy and Richie both remembered those questions too.

We couldn't figure it out. We never did figure it out. There appeared to be no confusion in the pub whatsoever. Unfortunately, we didn't think to ask anyone else in the pub if they had observed the same thing we did. I wish so much that we had.

2 UFOs and a Possum

2011-06-14T23:01:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago -- that would be the 12th -- my husband and I, along with 4 other people, saw an object in the sky we couldn't identify. It was a solid, bright light traveling with no sound at the altitude of an airplane. It was so low and bright that we knew it wasn't a satellite. It went in a straight trajectory west to east. My husband has worked with military craft for years (he tests weapon systems) and even he was unable to identify the object. This sighting took place around 10:30 or so. It was a cloudless night.

Tonight as I was taking my dog out, I saw another object. At first I assumed it was just a common aircraft because it was blinking, but then I realized it was one single light blinking completely off and on, exhibiting none of the blinking lights other of a traditional aircraft. It was also flying around airplane altitude (which I realize can vary but my point is it was not in space). It, too, was noiseless. It would blink on for maybe a second and a half and blink back out for just as long. It was also a cloudless night.

In another instance of strangeness tonight, when my husband took our dog Tiberius out to use the bathroom, Tiberius came across an opossum that Richie hadn't seen and tried to attack it. Richie snatched him back into, but the poor opossum went into shock. It lay there a few minutes, appearing to be asleep. (This is what people mistakenly believe is the opossum playing dead, but in reality, it is in shock.)

I felt so badly for it that I sat down a safe distance away and prayed for it until it recovered. When it did, it slowly raised its head and looked around, bleary eyed, like it didn't remember what had happened. Then it got up and walked away. I think I found that more interesting than the UFOs.

Salvation

2011-05-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those Christians who isn't comfortable dividing people into the 'saved' and 'unsaved'. I do believe there is a hell and some people will go there. I do believe in Christ, and I believe He is the only way to the Father. With that said, I love and respect people who don't even believe there IS a Christ or a Father. Despite what many nonChristians assume about us Christians, I don't mentally place them in a "damned" category. I can't possibly know where they stand - or will stand - with God. (Of course, I don't imagine that people who are living their lives with intent to destroy others -- serial killers, rapists, etc, presently belong to God.) Only He knows their hearts, their hurts and disillusionments, the reasons for what they believe or disbelieve. I remember a conversation with one of my closest friends, a Pagan, in which we both agreed there was a darkness in a particular store in town, owned by someone my friend suspected did black magic. Traditionally, a Christian and a Pagan would not be entering into agreement over what was dark and what wasn't. But I knew my friend, I knew her heart and her sensitivity and I trusted her instincts.

I once met a Muslim guy in London who was undergoing a depression over his ex-fiance's marriage to someone else. He was confiding in me and my husband about how after a year his depression was as deep as ever, and he didn't want to live sometimes. He said that he had been praying a lot and he had recently made his first pilgrimage to Mecca. There he had experienced an intense and personal experience with God. He told us that he was starting to think that God was trying to show him that it wasn't about his relationship with this girl, it was about his relationship with God. "That's exactly what He's trying to show you," I told him. I knew He was hearing from God because that is the God I know -- the one who loves us intimately and wants to be close to us. It didn't trip me up that he was Muslim because what he had spoken was truth. And I'm not a relativist -- I do believe certain universal truths.

I have come into conflict with a few fellow Orthodox Christians over my concept of salvation. They think that I am saying Christ is only one possible way. Well, I'm not saying that. I believe Christ, the 2nd person of the Trinity, is salvation. Otherwise his atonement was just an option. It makes His sacrifice meaningless to say it wasn't necessary. I believe there is evil and darkness that can only be cancelled out by a divine, infinite holiness, not our falteringly human attempts to 'be good.' We pretty much suck at that, even in our best attempts. That's why I believe the blood sacrifice of Christ, the only sinless human, was necessary.

Anyway, today I came across a transcript of a conversation between Billy Graham and Robert Schuller. Graham really articulated exactly what I believe about salvation (even though the person who had posted this transcript has condemned Graham as a heretic). Here it is:

Dr. Schuller: "Tell me, what is the future of Christianity?"

Dr. Graham: "Well, Christianity and being a true believer, you know, I think there's the body of Christ which comes from all the Christian groups around the world, or outside the Christian groups. I think that everybody that loves Christ or knows Christ, whether they're conscious of it or not, they're members of the body of Christ. And I don't think that we're going to see a great sweeping revival that will turn the whole world to Christ at any time. What God is doing today is calling people out of the world for His name. Whether they come from the Muslim world, or the Buddhist world, or the Christian world, or the non-believing world, they are members of the body of Christ because they've been called by God. They may not even know the name of Jesus, but they know in their hearts they need something that they don't have and they turn to the only light they have and I think they're saved and they're going to be with us in heaven."

Dr. Schuller: "What I hear you saying is that it's possible for Jesus Christ to come into a human heart and soul and life even if they've been born in darkness and have never had exposure to the Bible. Is that a correct interpretation of what you're saying?"

Dr. Graham: "Yes it is because I believe that. I've met people in various parts of the world in tribal situations that they have never seen a Bible or heard about a Bible, have never heard of Jesus but they've believed in their hearts that there is a God and they tried to live a life that was quite apart from the surrounding community in which they lived."

Dr. Schuller: "This is fantastic. I'm so thrilled to hear you say that. There's a wideness in God's mercy.

Dr. Graham: There is. There definitely is."

And there it is. I believe in a God who isn't so unreasonable as to require the every living person hear one specific story to be saved. After all, God, Christ, is omnipresent, omniscient, and omnipotent. Hearing and believing the story of Christ is the ultimate revelation, however. Knowing Christ is knowing love and forgiveness, is knowing that every person, despicable or righteous, was created in His image, is precious beyond words, and is able to be redeemed. It's knowing that every living thing on earth has His breath of life, that every little creature has its own value and unique essence and is also an object of His very personal love. (That latter part is my own personal doctrine.)

I have run into hostility from Christians who think I'm heretical and I've run into hostiliy from nonChristians who scoff at my "simplistic" belief in Christ. I'm learning, for the first time in my life, to be at rest with opposition from both. And I'm thankful for my friends -- Christian, Pagan, Muslim, etc. -- who really know how to love, which is the ultimate thing God requires of us anyway.

Todd in Class

2011-04-21T17:56:00.000-07:00

This morning in 5th hour, my students were discussing something we had read, and one student in particular was giving some very insightful comments. I was keeping in the background, as I had arranged the discussion to be entirely student-centered, but after a few comments, it dawned on me that this boy's voice was unusually raspy. So I said, "Todd, you sound like Clint Eastwood today." A lot of kids laughed, but Todd replied in a dazed tone, "I feel like crap." I told him I was sorry he felt bad and I had just been trying to make him laugh. The discussion continued and Todd again contributed with intelligent commentary. We were all just listening and I was marking down his points. Then, completely out of the blue, he concluded with, "And I just want to say that a .44 magnum is the most powerful handgun in the world." We all lost it.

More Telepathic Experiences

2011-03-14T06:47:00.000-07:00

I had a couple friends over weekend before last, and after some chatting and a couple drinks, I casually suggested one of them send me an object mentally. She had never done this with me before and she sent me four different objects total.

With the first one, I saw straw, like maybe a scarecrow, but my instinct told me to go with the properties. (Sometimes I can tell if I'm just getting the properties or the exact item.) So I said, "I'm getting straw." She said, "I sent you a red basket." She sent me a second object and I got simply a big orange ball. It was just too simple so I figured I had missed it, but I said, "OK, I just got a big, orange ball." She looked astonished, almost uncomfortable, and said, "I sent you the sun." The third thing I saw was definitely black and had a large, solid shape to it -- long. I wondered if it was a whale. Finally I said, "It's black; it's long, maybe cylindrical." She said, "I sent you a top hat."

We took a short break and a few minutes later, I asked her to send me another. This time I got a blanket, very clearly. Again, I felt it was too simple, but I said, "OK, I got a blanket or quilt." She said, "I sent you a green blanket." She was a bit freaked out over it, and she wanted to stop because it makes her head hurt. My other friend there, with whom I've always played the game with incredible success, said that it makes her head hurt as well. They both agreed the pain comes in the center of the forehead. So while I was disappointed, I didn't request any more objects. I am going to find out if it makes any of my other friends' heads hurt.

So far, the exercise has worked consistently with whomever is willing to do it with me -- except my husband, my cousin, and my brother. I was starting to conclude that it only works with females, but recently it worked with a male friend and in the past there was another male friend it worked with. So I don't know exactly what the criteria are at this point, or if there is a certain type with whom it works best.

Early Morning Excitement

2010-12-24T07:30:00.000-08:00

I had a terrible time going to sleep last night. It seemed that, for the first time ever, the night time cold meds I took had a reverse effect and my heart was beating a little too quickly. I lay awake for what seemed like hours, right on the edge of sleep. At last, somewhere in the dead middle of the night, I drifted off, only to be waken in the predawn morning by my dog Salem barking. She was perched on the end of the bed, looking toward the window.

Salem barks at everything and oftentimes nothing, and, as is my custom, I grabbed her and shoved her back under the covers where I spent perhaps the next half hour holding her snout while she continued to bark. I don't remember the last time she behaved this way in the middle of the night, but I was dismayed that I might never be able to go back to sleep. When I heard other dogs barking -- Mom's dog Henry and what sounded like other dogs in the neighborhood -- I knew it was never going to end. Once one dog hears another barking, it causes a chain reaction.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes to see a red glow at the window. I jumped out of bed and lifted the blind to find two flashing police cars. Richie and Mom and I were soon in the patio room, where from the window we could see that several police cars and one fire truck lined the streets in front of and alongside Mom's house. There was a man cuffed and lying on the street, with a cop standing over him.

As the dogs needed to go outside anyway, it worked out that the cop and apprehended man were only feet away from where the dogs had to potty. We shuffled around in our PJs, catching some of the interrogation, while the dogs did their business. It seems the man wasn't telling the cops where a gun or something was, and the cop was explaining to him that the dogs would find it anyway. We also noticed that the man had been injured somehow and his leg wrapped.

Meanwhile, Mom returned inside, but the ever frustrating Salem still hadn't gone to the bathroom. So the conversation between the cop and suspect became punctuated by my prompting "Go potty! Go potty!"

Once back inside, we observed the man lying on the snowy street and began to feel sorry for him. Mom speculated that he might need a blanket, but I reminded her that the cop wasn't getting any answers out of him and they probably wouldn't appreciate us making him more comfortable.

We all watched for the next thirty minutes or so, and eventually the police helped the man into the car. The policeman who had been questioning the man saw us watching and came over to the house to explain what was going on. We learned that the man had been robbing a house nearby and ended up fleeing the scene. He ran into this neighborhood and was caught hiding in Mom's hedge. When he tried to run from the police, one of the police dogs bit him -- hence the injury we saw (and the blood that is still in the snow). There were three robbers total and all three were caught.

I reminded Mom that just yesterday I had alerted her to the fact that her front door had been unlocked when nobody was home, and that she had replied it was OK, that this was a really safe neighborhood. Oh the irony.

So, Salem was right for a change. And she finally pottied, which is no easy thing to get her to do. Perhaps, with my powers of persuasion, I should have helped the cop interrogate the man. But I probably would have ended up bringing him a pillow.

The pics show the bloodstains from where the dog bit the burglar and the window from where we watched. The hedge by the window is where the burglar tried to hide.

Another strange case of synchronicity

2010-12-23T08:04:00.000-08:00

As with every Christmas season, I have been receiving books I've requested. As with every day of the year, I'm already behind on books I have been intending to read. I'm currently undertaking everything Orson Scott Card has ever written, but because I'm kind of a slow reader due to some degree of attention deficit, that will likely take me a couple years.

Two weeks ago, I was concentrating my energies on Ender in Exile. Richie had just bought OSC's latest (Pathfinder), so that was next on my list, followed by Anne Rice's latest angel book. That would take up the next three months for sure, and that's not including my plans to continue reading The Ender series with my uncle.

Suddenly, for no reason I can identify, I dropped everything and began reading The Owlman and Others by my friend Jonathan Downes. Why in the world I chose now, halting my already ambitious reading plans, to pick up this book that had been in my possession for two years is mysterious to me, but why I would choose the Christmas season to immerse myself in the part of cryptozoology that deals with the more sinister side of the unknown is even stranger. (The Owlman is the British version of the Mothman.)

Richie and I are presently at my mom's for the Christmas holidays. Two days ago (and two weeks into my Owlman book) we received a phone call from MUFON (Mutual UFO Network) for whom we are field investigators. This was an unusual case they were assigning us to: an apparent man-bird sighting in San Antonio. MUFON does not typically address cryptid sightings, but a lady who, with her husband and son, had seen a giant man-bird flying over her neighborhood back in April had just decided to report it to MUFON.

I find it nothing short of bizarre that the report this of sighting -- the first of its type that has ever come my way -- would occur the very time I had chosen, for no known reason, to read a book on this very thing.

I cannot believe this is coincidence. As George Noory says, there is no such thing.

Strange Occurences in My Friend's House

2010-12-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

I have a friend I will keep anonymous who has now had four bizarre things happen to her over the past year. These are things that many people would dismiss as absent-mindedness, but she is one of the most together, alert, and deliberate people I know. I told her she needed to keep a record of these experiences, so I'm doing it for her:

First incident: Last year, she was leaving the house with her daughter. She grabbed her very bulky keys and stuffed them into her coat pocket. She remembers this specifically. She got the car and they keys weren't there. She went back to the house, opened the front door (I can't remember if she hadn't locked it or what) and the keys were hanging on the hook next to the front door.

Second incident: She woke up one morning to a bizarre noise. She discovered it was coming from her deceased grandmother's electronic keyboard which had been turned to full volume. The cover -- which takes some effort to get on -- was still on it. My friend not only meticulously turns the keyboard off when she is done with it, but she always turns each volume adjuster all the way down. Her little girl is too small to have messed with the keyboard and replaced the cover. My friend shut the keyboard off, turned it back on, and could never get it to duplicate that odd noise again.

Third incident: the evening before last, my friend was washing her dishes and came to the last thing -- a bread pan. There was some cheese stuck in the bottom corner of the pan and she considered just soaking it all night. Then she decided against it since she had a brillow pad or something and she scrubbed it, rinsed it, and put in the dish rack. The next morning when she got up, the pan was soaking in the sink, cheese still stuck to the bottom, as if she had made a different decision.

Fourth incident: the same evening (evening before last) she specifically remembers putting her phone on the charger because her mother-in-law had tried to call right before she did so. She ignored the call, joked with her husband, then plugged the phone in. The next morning the phone was in its case next to the charger station. Her husband witnessed her put it on the charger and can't figure it out. He also is pretty sure he saw her wash and put away the bread pan.

Inconsequential weirdness, but weird nonetheless.

444

2010-12-11T12:46:00.000-08:00

I have never been one to take notice of a recurring time on the clock, such as the famed 11:11. I have actually never paid much attention to the significance of numbers, but a couple weeks ago I started noticing that I kept seeing the clock right at 4:44. There isn't any particular thing I'm doing at that time to explain why I would suddenly look at a clock. In fact, I get off work around 4:30 and often go to the gym. I don't even pay attention to the time. But over weekends and days when I wasn't at the gym, I kept noticing 4:44. I don't know why, or if there is a "why." But it's interesting. I did finally research 444 and found there is a web site devoted to it.

Experiments in Telepathy

2010-12-11T12:37:00.000-08:00

Since I was about 14, I have off and on played a game with friends in which I guess the number they are thinking. I have managed to do this with remarkable accuracy most times. Once I even told a friend what she said vs. then number she had actually thought. She was floored. I generally ask for a 2 digit number just to keep it interesting.

In the past year I have begun asking friends to project objects into my mind. This has proven even more incredible. Recently, my friend Jocy stayed over and we ended up playing the game for a while. I was guessing so accurately that it got bizarre. We started with two digits and I guessed these four in a row: 16, 28, 17, then I accurately guessed "14" before she had the chance to tell me she was thinking of a number.

After that, we switched to objects. I concentrated and got this transparent bubble. (Usually the person sends me an object and I guess the properties, like color, texture, etc.) Instead of asking her if that was correct, I sarcastically said "OK, something with a color would help; I saw a big bubble." She said she had sent me a snow globe.

The next thing I saw was a deep blue with stars. But it wasn't the sky, just something deep blue with stars on it. She had sent me a wizard's hat. I started writing it all down then (hence this play-by-play).

I missed the next one.

The next thing I got was confusing because it was just gray fuzz. She had sent me her dog Ozy - a gray Schnauzer.

Then I got a hat and she had sent me a crown.

Then I got a really strong impression of purple and that's exactly what she had sent me -- just purple. (That has a logic to it, though, following crown.)

I suggested we switch to animals. I saw a worm and she said she had sent me a centipede.

The next thing I saw was a red Betta fish, but for some reason I didn't trust I was correct. (Sometimes I can just feel if it's a hit or miss.) I hesitated and said "I saw a fish -- a scarlet one." And turns out she had sent me a red Betta.

After that I got a vague image of a cute, brown, furry thing like a groundhog or something. She had sent me a badger.

After that, I got every two or three correct. They included black & fuzzy, which was black felt; yellow, which was a rubber duck (& those two were in a row); a yellow doll, which was a little girl's buttermilk colored bedroom with a doll in it; the number 77, and the number 5472 in that sequence.

After about an hour, I started missing constantly so it appeared the streak was over.

The next day, Jocy attended the MUFON Christmas party with us. On our way there, she was sending me images in the car. I guessed a few correctly, but the most bizarre was this: I vividly saw a panda bear. It turns out she had sent me a panda bear eating bamboo. When we got to the party, I asked for some coffee, and the man closest to the pot grabbed a mug for me and poured me some. The picture on the mug was a panda eating bamboo. When I showed it to Jocy, she said that is exactly what she had seen in her mind. She said it hadn't even been a live Panda, it had been a picture just like on the mug. Very strange.

Last night I played the game with my friend Jamie. Again, I seemed to have hit a streak for a good while. Below are some of the things I guessed, followed by the actual object Jamie sent me. (Normally, I stick to properties rather than trying to put a name to the thing.)

a wooden twig-like thing, upright / her small peach tree outside that is losing all its leaves and has become twiggy
something pink and delicate / cotton candy
a green clown or doll-like thing / the Grinch
a large, wide, scaly-face, like a fish or reptile / a bearded dragon

There were more, but those were the ones that stand out in my mind.

My sister and I used to play this over the phone with amazing results. I only remember one specific though, and it was when she asked me to guess an object she was holding. I said it was large and white and soft, like a pillow. Turns out it was a large, white stuffed bunny. (I didn't know she even owned one.)

The only other ability I have been exploring (or re-exploring) is that of finding lost objects. I've never been entirely convinced I have this ability, but I did have one bizarre time when, at a friend's house for only the 2nd time ever, I fished around in my mind for a book he had lost. I don't think I'd ever been in his and his wife's bedroom, but suddenly I knew the book was under the bed on the left side. I went down the hall, reached under the bed and pulled it out. He said he never kept it there -- he always kept it on his coffee table. I was only 14 then, and for the rest of my teen years I had fairly good success with that gift. I once located a needle I had lost somewhere in the house. I didn't even know what ROOM it was in, but when I mentally searched for it, I felt it by the front door and located it there. I would even have friends hide objects for me and I would "feel" them out and go right to them without having to search.

However, as an adult, I can't remember this gift hardly ever working. Until last week. Last week, I dropped a tiny nail (the kind you use to secure those metal-toothed hangers onto the back of a picture). The nail landed on a busy, Persian rug, so I was having a terrible time finding it. On a whim, I quit looking and closed my eyes. I personified the nail and asked it where it was. Immediately, I knew it was toward the front of the rug by my feet. I opened my eyes and located it there immediately.

About 20 minutes later, I was getting some chips and I took off the paper clip I use as a fastener. I normally lay the paperclip on the kitchen counter, but it wasn't there and I realized I must have dropped it. I looked around with no success, so I again closed my eyes and asked it where it was. Immediately the thought came to me that it was in the pantry floor, and I located it there. A skeptic might say that I subconsciously heard the paper clip fall when I was grabbing the bag out of the pantry. A skeptic might also say I had subconsciously seen the tiny nail when I was looking for it. I don't know. But it's interesting.

Coincidence, Dimensional Cross-over, or Crazy Couple?

2010-11-01T19:36:00.000-07:00

This story is now a month and half old, but the mystery remains unsolved and the plot thickened today:

The first week of this past August, my husband I went to San Antonio for one last get-away before the school year began. One evening, as we sat down at Joe's Crab Shack, I noticed that a boy in the family we sat next to looked like one of my students from 2 years prior. I didn't want to stare long enough to be sure, though, that it was him. However, a while into the meal, I heard the young girl (who I assumed to be the sister) called this boy by the name of my student. (It's not a common name.) I turned quickly now to look at him, and they all looked at me curiously.

"Are you the C---s?" I asked.

"No," they replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "I just heard her say K--- and I taught a K.C. two years ago --"

"Oh, "they cut in, "This is K.C!" the father said, pointing at the boy. He smiled quietly, as was characteristic of him. "This is K.C.," he said again, "But we aren't the Cs. He's been saying you look like his teacher." One of them (can't remember which one) said.

"Well, guess what," I said smiling at K.C, "I am teaching juniors this year, so I might get you again." He was still just smiling and the sister now had him in a playful headlock.

"I hope we don't get any bad notes home this year," the mother said.

I told them that while I didn't remember K.C. being a problem himself, he had been in one of my most hyper classes and I might have sent a few notes home to many of the boys' parents that year.

So that was that and we said goodbye when they left.

At the beginning of this year, I did end up with K.C. on my roster. On the first day of school, I mentioned seeing him on the Riverwalk. He said nothing until I mentioned it again later, and this time, he said, "That wasn't me." I questioned him, not just that day, but for several days because he stuck to his story -- he had never been the Riverwalk this summer. He even swore to God and he never swore to God, he said. I emailed him mom to make doubly sure, and tonight she emailed me back and assured me they were never in San Antonio this summer. In fact, she is white and has no husband, nor is there a male figure in K.C's life at this time. The K.C's couple I saw on the Riverwalk was black. And the only sister K.C. has is much younger than this girl on the Riverwalk.

So the mystery remains unsolved. Was the couple messing with me? If so, they were awfully ready with some quick responses. Was it just a coincidence and there is another K.C. who looks just like my K.C. and who has a teacher that looks like me? Or did I cross into a parallel universe where K.C. was in San Antonio with a couple that wasn't his parents? Or did K.C. uknowingly bilocate? (lol.) He said he was supposed to have been in San Antonio that very week with a good friend, but didn't go. I'm afraid I may never know, but it's something to think about.

Mysterious Phone Incident

2010-09-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

This afternoon my husband and I were meeting for lunch with my dad and step-mom. My husband had left his phone in my car (he was riding a motor cycle) and so I took it into the restaurant to give to him. "I tried to call you from Kathy's phone," he said. "Is your phone turned off?" I checked my phone to find no missed calls. Then I checked the call log. To my surprise, rather than showing "Kathy's Cell" in the incoming call list, it showed "Richie's Cell" had called at the very time Richie had tried to call me from Kathy's cell. Confused, we all checked Kathy's phone it showed that an outgoing call went to me about 2 minutes prior to the time my phone said Richie tried to call. Yet, my phone never showed Kathy's phone calling.

Furthermore, Richie's phone had rested in the CD holder right in front of me for the duration of the trip. I hadn't touched it. HOWEVER -- and this is the only possible explanation we can come up with -- I did at one point reach under the phone to get some CDs. We figure I hit something that caused the phone to dial me. How that could have happened while the phone was on lock -- well, I guess it could have because phones do all kinds of things like that. However, the chances of it calling ME at almost the exact moment Richie really WAS trying to call me... Now, why Kathy's cell never even registered as having called my phone is a mystery because, according to the clock, her call went out first, which means that Richie's cell should have been the call that went unseen to my voicemail.

Even though we can sort of explain it, it's very odd.

Another psychic moment involving Jamie

2010-09-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

Today during a faculty meeting, my friend Jamie (from the flux capacitor and garage door "pointless psychic stories") was sitting on my right beside me. I was doodling, as always, and since parallel universes is always a hot topic of conversation with me and Jamie, I began drawing them. I began with a point -- a small dark circle -- and drew two parallel lines coming out from the top of it. I began adding smaller lines coming out from each parallel line so that it started looking sort of like tree branches. Jamie had been listening to the speaker intently. A little bit later, I noticed Jamie had started doodling and I glanced down to see. In the middle of her page, she had drawn a dark circle with two parallel lines coming out the top of it. The picture took up a good part of her page. I laughed and elbowed her. "Is that parallel universes?" She nodded, and I said, "So you saw mine?" and pointed to my doodles. She glanced down at my doodles, which were very small and in my left margin. Then she started cracking up. "No," she said, "I didn't see yours!" Then she started laughing even harder because she noticed I had started with a dark circle as well.

I was more astonished than amused. I know that to anyone who doesn't know Jamie, this story doesn't seem that significant -- as you could assume she was lying or that we had drawn parallel universe diagrams before. But she wasn't and we hadn't. Something that our principal had said had given her the idea for her parallel universe drawing. I had started mine long before for a whole different reason.

Dobsonfly (originally what I thought was an Early Brown Stonefly)

2010-08-13T21:44:00.000-07:00

This was in my garage. Freeky looking! I put the spoon by it for scale.

My recent flight from KY to AZ and its general unpleasantries

2010-06-28T15:23:00.000-07:00

About 10 minutes after Peter dropped me off the airport last week, I had to call him to turn around because I’d left my laptop in his car. He obliged uncomplainingly – love ya, Peter!

The lady at the luggage check-in was inexplicably hostile with me. First she tried to get me to use the machine, and I told her I didn’t know how. Then she glanced at my ticket and ID and caustically said something to the effect of I had what I needed, I didn’t need else anything from her, what did I want? Well, I still needed to check my luggage. She appeared to now be ignoring me, so I hoisted my suitcase onto the scale unsolicited. I was about to tell her off when I remembered it’s best these days not to get belligerent in an airport.

Lest you think I imagined her rudeness, about 30 minutes later at the gate, some man said to me out of the blue, “That lady at the counter sure was giving you a hard time.” He then told me that another man had gotten so angry with her that she had to tell him not to get in her face. I replied that if she keeps acting that way a lot more people will be getting in her face.

Two men in front of me in the security line smelled so strongly of … well, I’m hoping that one of them had merely stepped in the source of the smell. I kept backing away from them so that the lady behind me couldn’t get close enough to smell them and think I was the culprit. I prayed they weren’t on my flight to Dallas.

The flight was a bit rough and I panicked a couple of times, such as during take-off, the duration of the flight, and the landing. The man next to me was maddeningly oblivious to my anxiety. As if that wasn’t irritating enough, two young women a few seats up (that had already annoyed me by laughing too loudly), kept throwing up their hands during turbulence, as if they were in a roller coaster. You might think this would have lightened the mood for me, but it only resulted in my wanting to smack their joyous hands back down where they belonged. It just looked so stupid and I was so scared and nobody cared. “Everyone is a jerk!” I vented to myself, and somehow that made me feel better.

The coffee on the plane was terrible, and it took me most of the flight to figure out that it tasted exactly like mildew smells.

The next flight got interesting even before take-off. As with the previous flight, there was not an empty seat and people kept holding things up by forcing oversized carry-ons into the overhead compartments. I watched in disbelief while one lady attempted to push in a carry-on that was sticking a good four inches over the top of the storage lid. I guess other people were staring as well because two of us jumped in with suggestions and one motivated young man grabbed it himself and shoved it in.

Eventually, the flight crew began pleading with people to quit holding things up. They asked two or three times for people to get out of the aisles and take their seats. Astonishingly enough, people responded by continuing to take their time and even started switching seats with other people. “Would you and your wife like to sit together?” “Honey, do you want this seat or this seat?” At one point, a man who appeared to be the only sane one besides myself said to his wife “Just sit down!” in exasperation. I couldn’t believe the number of seat-switching I was witnessing, as if the flight crew had pleaded with them to please take more time.

And then, as if that weren’t enough, my seatmate finally appeared, a tall, young , red-headed girl with several facial piercings. And guess what. She asked me to switch her seats so that I had the window and she had the aisle. That was fine with me since it didn’t require holding anyone up. However, rather than sitting down, she got into the seat on her knees and peered overhead to her friend who was several rows back. I knew what was coming next, and sure enough, she asked me to switch seats with her friend. Now I was going to be one of those annoying aisle walkers.

I dashed to my new seat to find a man in probably his 40s who had a strong Texas accent and a cavalier attitude. He continued a conversation on his cell phone even after the instructions had been given to turn cell phones off, and he would simply say “hang on” and place it in his lap whenever the flight attendant passed by.

When we began lift-off, I informed the man I am afraid of flying. After my last flight, I was determined that, whether he cared or not, he would be aware. He asked if there was anything he could do and I told him no, but thank you. During ascent, the pilot began a turn which caused the wing dipping that I hate most of all. “This is the part I hate the most,” I said to the man, determined not to be ignored. He obligingly said, “OK.”

I tried after that to avoid bothering the man, and the rest of the flight was relatively uneventful, except for a small moment of discomfort when the flight attendant mistook us for a married couple. (She asked if we were going to share the peanuts he had purchased. I should have said "Yes, that would be very nice.")

Moral of this otherwise pointless story: if your job requires you to work with the public, don't be an ass. If you are going out of town or even just out of your house, make sure you have no fecal matter on you of any kind. If you find yourself sitting next to nervous people, tell them that you know for a fact they will not die today. (Just say it.) If you are boarding a plane, remember that yours is not the only plane in the air that day and the pilot is on a time schedule. And don't assume people of the opposite sex who happen to be seated together have also been united in matrimony.

Dig Allen, Space Explorer

2010-06-18T17:53:00.001-07:00

Once in awhile I am drawn to vintage teen literature. I guess my Trixie Belden reading past (which smoked Nancy Drew) causes me to wax sentimental when I stumble across any G-rated novel for yesterday’s youth.

This week I was browsing in a used bookstore and I came across a book that looked, at a glance, much like the old yellow-spined Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys books. This one, however, had a cover illustration of three boys and a grown man in spacesuits kneeling down and examining what appeared to be an elaborate city under ice. The title read “Lost City of Uranus,” and at the very top it said “A Dig Allen Space Explorer Adventure.” The copyright was 1962. I was immediately drawn to the nostalgia of 1960s sci-fi, a time of innocent wonder at space exploration before sophisticated cynicism, in my opinion, perverted much of sci-fi into the borderline horror of today.

The penciled-in price read 12.00, and even though that seemed a bit steep for Half-Priced Books, I took it to the counter along with two other books. I was startled when the lady said my total would be 7.00 +. I hesitated, wondering if I should count my blessings and run. But curiosity got the better of me and, pointing to the Dig Allen book, I asked, “How much was that?”

“1.00,” the lady said, opening the inside cover to have another look. “Oh no! “ she exclaimed. ”This is 12.00!” Of course, I expected her to reward my honesty, but instead she thanked me for it and charged me the correct amount.

Now feeling incredibly stupid, I paid for and took my purchase. As I explained the situation to my mom, mom suggested I ask the owner of the bookstore, who was currently behind the customer service counter, why this particular book was so much. The man explained that the Dig Allen series , of which there were six total, had been intended to be the new Hardy Boys. However, they had not sold well, and as a result there were only so few printed. That’s why my book cost so much.

Upon hearing this, Mom said to me, “Well, you just paid extra for a flop.” The man hastened to contradict her, but his explanation had already done the damage.

Feeling even more ridiculous, I left with mom. She encouraged me to return the book if I had reservations (and I really should have between the clerk not sticking to the price she originally named and the man explaining to me what a disaster the series had been), but I didn’t.

So last night I started the book, which I thought would be a quick and semi-delightful read, but so far it hasn’t captured me. However, the cover -- the boys in spacesuits exclaiming over a brilliant, extra-terrestrial city under ice – makes me very happy to look at. So I’m keeping it. And I WILL read it, since I paid for it. But from now on I will ASK why a book is so expensive, just in case it is, ironically, because nobody wanted it to begin with.

My Own Reality Show

2010-05-14T04:01:00.000-07:00

I have decided that I am the subject of a reality show I have not been told about, sort of like The Truman Show with Jim Carrey. And the goal is to create as many weird situations as possible in my classroom and see how successfully I can still teach.

I got this notion in my head yesterday when a pair of jeans was mysteriously left in my classroom. “There’s a pair of pants in here!” someone declared. Without even looking, I told them to put the pants over with the other clothes that have been left over the year. Later on, another student discovered them and tried to peddle them. But nobody bought them so they are still there, draped over a milk crate. I don’t recall seeing anyone leaving class without any pants on, but then again I also missed it when Kurt removed his pants for a few seconds on a dare during 3rd hour. What was I doing that I could miss that? I guess you’d have to review old posts about my 3rd hour, but it could have been anything from breaking up a game of Ninja to assisting an asthmatic who keeps forgetting his inhaler.

But it’s not just third hour. Today during 6th hour (my very best class and the closest yet to a traditional classroom atmosphere), just after we had gotten quiet and begun reading Romeo and Juliet, Timothy* suddenly reached out and slammed his fist down on the water bottle on Ian’s desk, sending it crashing loudly to the floor. A stunned silence ensued, during which I buried my face in my hand, then continued reading with no further disruption. I found out that later that Ian had fallen asleep and Timothy was attempting to wake him up.

We aren’t allowed to let students sleep; we have been told more than once that principals don’t want to see any heads down. But I don’t care anymore and here is why: yesterday I suddenly realized that my 3rd hour had fallen quiet and learning was taking place. I looked around to find the key performers of the usual circus were out cold, and whether it was a coincidence or they had all partaken of the vodka that some students were found putting in the slushies at lunch, I was quite happy. “I know people are sleeping,” I said pleasantly to the rest of the class, “I’m just going to let them sleep.”

It's never as bad in 1st hour, when nothing much happens beyond someone calling out, “Does anyone have any gum?” But I wasn’t prepared for 7th hour when out of the blue Trey turned to the class and asked if anyone knew how to juggle. I asked him why he needed to know that and he said that that he wanted to learn. And that was that. I guess nobody knew because I’m certain they’d have stood and demonstrated.

Kenny took 3rd hour to a whole new level of chaos yesterday when he jumped up and ran out of the room. I took off after him just in time to see him leap into the air and smack one of the hallway ceiling tiles, then start back into the classroom. “What are you doing?” I asked him. He replied, “Keith told me I couldn’t do it so I showed him.”

It’s only the mornings before the kids enter the building that bring some peace and quiet, but even those can present unexpected events: this morning I found a cell phone on my overhead projector. With the help of some kids during 7th hour, we discovered it belonged to a senior. I tracked down the senior and found it had been stolen from him that morning. I had never seen this kid in my life, but whatever kid (out of the 2100 at CCHS) stole his phone chose to leave it in my room. Because clearly my room contains a divinely-installed vacuum that sucks all reason and order within a 50,000 square foot radius.

And don’t think it ends after school either. Some of the kids are just getting started. Today I had my usual crew hanging out when suddenly Kelsea (“Voice of Condemnation” for those that know that story) burst into my room to spill a confession to me about having falsified her identity to the office today. I can’t figure out how I went from being the target of her hatred to her priest, but nothing fazes me anymore.

She then handed me a cell phone that she had just found in the soccer field. She knew whose it was, but didn’t want to be in possession of it in case it had a tracking device. I found it interesting that my day began and ended with a missing cell phone, but in a few minutes the owner came to claim it. I didn’t know him or the two friends he brought with him, but within the few seconds they entered and exited my room, one of them had managed to fasten a condom over the doorknob. Before I could even react, the male teacher next door suddenly stormed onto the scene. He demanded the names of the offenders and made them throw the condom away. (So of course, it went into my trashcan.) I pretty much just watched all this wordlessly. Because, like I said, I’m the subject of a reality show and am now viewing it with detached curiosity.

Somewhere in that black hole of chaos, there is a cosmic camera installed for the amusement of some divine being. I foresee a second Genesis: “In the beginning, God created Mrs. West’s class. And it was without form..."

*All names have been changed

Porch Birds

2010-04-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

The darlings are back. Last year they appeared to be roosting with no nest in sight, but this year they have built a nest in the top left corner across the front door. Since I can't tell if they are Cliff Swallows or Cave Swallows, I have created a new category (for the frustrated non-scientist) called Porch Birds. Much easier to identify.

Monsters: A Softer Side

2010-03-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

For the past five years, I have taught The Odyssey to my high school students. And each year I am intrigued by our textbook’s reprint of a painting depicting the Cyclops Polyphemus as a furry, long-necked creature with the soft, one-eyed gaze of a gentle pet. This Cyclops strikes me as vulnerable, not the sort of creature that would snatch up men to eat them alive and drool pieces of them afterward in drunken hiccups.

Yesterday as my students were reading the gruesome scene with Polyphemus, I read the caption of the painting, which explained that its French artist, Odilon Redon, had wanted to portray a sympathetic Cyclops. This concept isn’t a complete fabrication: one of the most striking elements of the scene with Polyphemus is the gentleness he displays toward his sheep even as he gorges himself on men.

When the young Dawn with fingertips of rose
lit up the world, the Cyclops built a fire
and milked his handsome ewes, all in due order,
putting the sucklings to the mothers. Then,
his chores being all dispatched, he caught
another brace of men to make his breakfast,
and whisked away his great door slab
to let his sheep go through…

Upon each reading, I find myself oddly moved by the gentle shepherding of Polyphemus. The juxtaposition of his care for his sheep with his brutality toward Odysseus’s men leaves me feeling ambivalent and examining my own nature. While I am certainly not a cannibal or even a murderer, I understand feeling occasional hostility toward my fellow humans while caring deeply for animals. Most animal-lovers can attest to the same.

Beyond this common disillusionment with people, however, I find that I am slower than some to label any strange creature a “monster.” What constitutes a monster? Something that kills and eats its food? That’s most of us, but only people make a sport of it. Something that looks unfamiliar, like the Texas Blue Dog? In report after report, I hear the Blue Dogs described as “ugly.” A man in Tennessee even stated, “It looks like something out of ‘you know where’.” Assuming he meant “hell”, I observed a picture of the dog he had killed and tried to see what he was seeing. It was probably the “fangs,” the dark skin, the eyes shut tight against any possible expression of emotion. Still, I can’t see anything sinister in photographs or videos of live ones.

Then there were the paintings and drawings in Nick Redfern’s study, most of them of the Owlman/Mothman. Many of these in particular looked like something out of ‘you know where’ as well, but I found myself staring with a slight, unexpected affinity at one. It certainly wasn’t because of its demonically glowing red eyes; maybe it was the furriness of its form. There is something about fur that softens people toward a creature – and something about the lack thereof that does the opposite, as many dead Blue Dogs could attest to.

So, while I still can’t quite define what constitutes a monster, what makes one person shoot a Blue Dog while another feeds it food scraps, or what makes a part of me like the vicious Polyphemus, I finally came to terms with my feelings for the Cyclops and purchased a reprint of the painting yesterday. He will soon be hanging in my study, which may be well on its way to bearing its own wall of “monsters”.

Student's bizarre claims prove true

2010-02-19T08:16:00.001-08:00

I have a student who wrote the following in her journal entry today. I checked as much of her info as I currently have access to (her address and her birthday), and her claims have proven true so far:

My favorite number is 13. Most people think that it's unlucky, but for me it's all luck. I was born on 9/13. When I was born, my head was 13 inches and I was the 13th baby born in the hospital that day. I live in house #913 in a room that is 9x13...I will also graduate in 2013, and my 18th birthday is Friday the 13th, 2013.

I just though it was pretty cool.

Strange bug

2009-12-22T18:48:00.001-08:00

Can anyone identify this Central Texas bug? It was in my kitchen earlier this year.

[update]: I found out that this is a glow worm beetle. However, I like what Lizzy said better. Here is the character to which she likened the bug:

Oblivious Husband

2009-12-12T20:55:00.001-08:00

You may remember that a few years ago I managed to throw up at the dinner table at TGIFridays when Richie and I were eating with Pastor Dave and Kathy. I got choked and it triggered my gag reflex and suddenly I had emptied my whole dinner onto my shirt. Somehow, neither Richie, who was sitting right next to me, nor Pastor Dave, who was sitting across from him, even noticed. And it was a fairly drawn out process. Richie finally happened to look at me and see me, teary eyed, clasping a dinner napkin to my chest, and he asked if I was OK. Long story short, it sucked.

Well, I was reminded of that incident this morning. Due to some minor health issues, I have been on a couple medications this week. One is an antibiotic that must be taken with food. I had just eaten an egg, sausage, and cheese burrito so I could take the antibiotic. I walked into the kitchen and immediately got hiccups. My hiccups normally last a long time, but these faded just as suddenly as they had come. Then I felt kind of woozy. Well, I went ahead and took my antibiotic -- a gigantic pill whose awkward entry triggered my gag reflex. I managed to get it down without gagging further, but now as I stood trying to recover from the whole swallowing ordeal, I realized I was really feeling nauseated.

I began praying that I not throw up for two reasons: 1) I had just taken my pill and didn't want to waste it and 2) I had just eaten an egg burrito. See, I find eggs pretty gross in general, and the only way I can eat them is if they are mixed in with good things like cheese, meat, salsa, whatever the case may be. But the idea of puking back out my eggs might ruin them for me in any form.

Well, I puked anyway. Right there on the kitchen floor. I ended up on my hands and knees and every single bit of that egg burrito was right in front of me with more coming. And the only thing I could see was egg. Just egg, egg, egg. I was traumatized. So of course I kept puking and puking...

What you don't know is that Richie was literally 15 feet away from me, on the living room couch watching TV and surfing on his laptop. Our house is an open floor plan -- our kitchen looks full into the living room. And as I lay on the floor retching and watching my already shaky relationship with eggs go out the window, I fully expected Richie to come running to my aid.

Nope. He had no clue. He remained on the couch surfing the net, completely oblivious to the drama unfolding behind him. By now the dogs were closing in and you know what they were about to do... Between gags and coughs I would yell at them to get back. But Richie didn't notice this either.

I thought I would never be done, but at last it was over. Saying nothing, I rose from the floor and went for the paper towels to begin cleaning up. I heard Richie chuckle over something he was watching on Youtube. I said nothing. I just didn't know what to say. "Honey, you just missed me throwing up...again." ??

After I got the floor clean and everything disposed of, I finally broke the news to him. I think I just said, "Richie, I just threw up...right there...in the kitchen floor." He seemed mildly surprised, saying that he had thought those gagging noises were somehow related to my hiccups. So he actually had heard it this time, he just didn't interpret correctly.

It was over as quickly as it happened and I made toast. This time the pill stayed down.

Angel Time by Anne Rice

2009-12-05T07:54:00.000-08:00

Angel Time is a unique story of redemption. Toby O’Dare, a cold-blooded killer, is solicited by an angel of Heaven to put his skills to holy use. After we are introduced to Toby’s present life from his first-person perspective, his tragic past is explained from the perspective of his guardian angel Malchiah. Malchiah’s affinity for Toby challenges the human assumption that angels are merely unfeeling operatives performing their duty. Once it is revealed how Toby has turned from a brilliant and compassionate young boy to an assassin, the narrative takes up where it left off – just after Malchiah has startled Toby with his presence and an extension of God‘s mercy.

The depth of Toby’s characterization drew me to him immediately. The struggle with his past, present, and potential identity made his every action and decision a moment of suspense.

In this odd but pleasing mix of the paranormal and the historical, we are also acquainted with 13th Century England where oppressive laws and virulent lies threaten the Jews’ existence. Mrs. Rice clearly possesses an important understanding and appreciation of the Jews and their remarkable contributions to the very societies that have persecuted them. As with her other novels, her careful scholarship ensures historical accuracy even while she weaves an arresting plot with realistic and engaging characters.

This novel is, most importantly, a spiritual one. I was moved by its illustration of God’s grace and the supernatural activity of His kingdom. I eagerly await the next novel in the Toby O'Dare series!

Time Warp Text Message?

2009-11-29T19:55:00.001-08:00

My mobile phone is set up to send me text notifications whenever I get a message or wall post on facebook. Yesterday evening I kept receiving text messages on an amusing status update I had posted. Every few minutes the notification would sound and I would check the message. At one point, I was talking to my husband and I happened to look down and see that I had received a message from my friend Lizzie. I thought it was odd that I hadn't, as with the other messages, heard the notification sound. The message just appeared as if I had clicked it on to read it. Anyway, I had been particularly interested in what Lizzie would have to say, so when I saw that it began "LOL...", I went onto FB to view the rest of the message. Oddly, there was no such message on FB. I could only assume she had deleted it to reword it or whatever.

So I went to my gmail because I knew that it would have sent the full original message. (For those that may not understand how this works, once somebody has posted a message on FB, I immediately receive an email on gmail and a text message on my phone. Even though the messenger may remove their message, the email and text message will still be there; the sender of the message has no control over the notifications I receive.) There was no message on gmail either.

By now I was getting really confused, so I went back to my text messages to view the message again. There WAS no message in my text messages. It was like it had never existed.

Frustrated, I told my husband what was going on, complaining that I couldn't see any evidence of Lizzie's message that had begun "LOL." About three minutes into our speculating on what could have happened, I heard the notification of a new message. I looked down to see Lizzie's message, yet again. It began "LOL, oh dear..." and this time when I went to FB and gmail, the message was there. Not only that, but it showed that it had been posted that very minute...not three minutes before, when I had actually seen it.

hmmmm....

No need to be a Shane

2009-10-13T18:12:00.000-07:00

For a few months back in my 20s, I worked as a secretary for a small town attorney. There was one client named Shane whom I always had a blast with; the only trouble was, I couldn't quite tell if he was male or female.

One night on the phone with my friend Kerry, who lived on the other side of the United States. I was telling her about this client and she said that in the mail room where she worked there was a customer whose gender she couldn't place. But that's not the weird part: the weird part is that we discovered both our gender-bending clients were named "Shane".

Not sure what to make of that, but it happened and it was intriguing.

Coincidence of little signifiance -- but cool nonetheless

2009-10-13T18:04:00.001-07:00

This coincidence doesn't seem overly important, but it was so bizarre I wanted to add it to my stories. Richie and I played a game of Scrabble one night in which our scores were tied and we had only one letter each left to play. Neither of us could play that letter, so the game was left as a tie. Naturally, we looked to see which lone letter the other had after the game, and we both had the letter 'V'.

Weird Weekend

2009-10-04T14:31:00.000-07:00

I hate to rip off the name of a yearly event held by the CFZ, but this has truly been a weird and wonderful weekend for me, sort of a carry-over of the return of Barnabas.

It started yesterday when I woke up so happy in God. I just felt His love and thanked Him for it and for everything He has done. Ever since an amazing thing He did for me a couple weeks ago (that I haven't blogged about yet), I have been riding a kind of residual blessing. Things have seemed so right and so designed. Our agenda for the day was to attend our monthly MUFON meeting, then have dinner with a couple later that evening. This particular couple were the first witnesses to a UFO that we were assigned to since becoming field investigators. We interviewed them last winter and have been friends ever since.

At the end of the MUFON meeting, a few of us were discussing strange coincidence stories. We left on that note, and Richie and I went shopping before meeting up with our friends. Our friends had another couple friend joining us, and they were taking us to an out-of-the-way Japanese Steakhouse, since Austin City Limits made downtown too congested.

There were six total in our party as we waited for our table. As we stood in line, suddenly the door opened and in walked the most recent UFO witness that we have interviewed. This guy lives in Dripping Springs and we haven't seen him since the interview. In fact, I really never expected to see him again unless he attended a MUFON meeting, which he never has. I just stared a moment; it seemed so surreal. I then greeted him and pointed him out to Richie. We introduced him to our friends, our first interviewees, whom we had actually told him about at the time of our interview. Everyone was truly floored: of all the pieces to have fallen into place for us to meet up at that time and place. We had never been to that restaurant, our couple friend had never been, and our most recent witness rarely goes there. It's not like Austin -- the capital of Texas -- is a small town anyway, not to mention that only 2 of the 5 of us in question lived there.

So after good food and good wine and a good time had by all, we drove home. I called our MUFON state section director and told him about running into one witness while eating out with the other ones. He was fascinated and reminded me that George Noory doesn't believe in coincidences; he believes, as I do, there is a design to them.

It was either on our way to or away from the restaurant that I was missing my rats for some reason. I always do, but it was pronounced this evening. I imagined Horace was perched on my shoulder as he always used to be and I tilted my head, trying to remember how it felt to feel his furry little form against my cheek. And that detail will mean something in a moment...

Richie and I attended Dad's church this morning before hopping over to our Episcopal church for the annual Blessing of the Animals (as the Feast of St. Francis is this week). Once we got into the sanctuary, Regan -- who, along with her husband, rents our old house from us -- walked up to me. She and I have never hung out, but her family attends our church and she has always seemed quiet but very nice.

"I saw a rat in the house last night," she began. At first I thought she was telling me (her landlady, after all) that the house had a rat problem. But then she shook her head, "But I knew it wasn't..." she trailed off. I started to suspect what she was telling me, but could hardly believe my ears. As she went on to explain, I knew it was true: she had seen a ghost of a rat in the house -- the ghost of one of my rats.

Regan always knew I had rats, but I am not sure she ever even saw them, and I know she couldn't tell you who was who or what any one of them even looked like. She explained that the rat was walking down the hall, then suddenly, it wasn't there. (It hadn't run off -- it just wasn't there.) She knew she had seen something, but she couldn't figure out what. Then she remembered my rats and realized she had just seen one of them. I asked her to describe it, and she said he had white on his face. Using my phone I got into the Internet and scrolled through my rat pics. I assumed she had seen John-Titor, who was always roaming the halls, but when she saw George's picture, she gasped and said, "That was it!"

It made perfect sense, then, why she hadn't been able to immediately place George as a rat. George is a Dumbo Rex (low ears, curly hair) that doesn't look like a typical rat. "I couldn't tell what he was at first," she said, "He was just so cute!"

I was so comforted at the knowledge that George was whom she had seen. His death had been a particularly painful ordeal, as he had come down with congestive heart failure after only 1 yr. of age and had never recovered, despite my exhaustive efforts to nurse him. He had died in my arms (as all but one of my rats had) while the snow was pouring down outside. I remember how horribly depressed I had felt, watching the snow -- which I normally love -- blanket the ground, everything so gray and drab, and George wasting away in my arms.

And now he had made an appearance around the Feast of St. Francis, the day before the Blessing of the Animals. Richie later asked me what I think it means, George's appearance, and all I can figure is that God was assuring me George lives. I believe that everything (not just humans) with God's breath of life, continues or will be revived one day, and only God knows what that assurance brought me. The unique spirit of each animal, the worth of Creation, and the power of redemption leave no room for debate in my mind.

Incidentally, George's full name was George Noory. I had named him after my favorite radio talk show host, who doesn't believe in mere coincidences.

Orb-weaver spins prey

2009-09-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

This is the orb-weaver on my back porch. Its nest is connected to one of the porch lights, so it gets more insects than it can handle.

Barnabas is back!!

2009-09-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what happened: all I know is that one (and only one) giant toad hung around our house every day for a couple months and then suddenly we found a giant toad dead in the driveway. We were crushed, thinking we had killed Barnabas. We looked for him hopefully every day afterward but no toad could be found. I prayed God would either bring him back (I believe in miracles, even those that seem insignificant in the scheme of things) or replace him. But there was no sign of a large toad after we had found that one dead, whom I assumed was Barnabas. Things felt very empty.

Then tonight my husband, who had been working outside, popped his head in and said "Guess who's out here?" I hardly believed it, thinking it was the smaller toad that we had see occasionally and he wasn't remembering Barnabas's size correctly. But in faith I went outside to have a look, and there sat a giant toad in our drive. Immediately I went for the camera and took several pics. I have compared them to my original pics of Barnabas and it is definitely the same toad. (The pics I am speaking of are pics of the markings on his back, which I don't show here because his face is much cuter!)

In the middle of my photo shoot, I squatted down in front of Barnabas and had a little talk with him about staying out of the driveway. After I had talked a bit, he suddenly turned his head and looked at me, then took a hop toward me. I jumped back; I guess I'm not used to aggressive toads. Then a bug came along and he ate it.

Anyway, Barnabas is back and whether or not he was never dead or he has been resurrected is irrelevant to me. I prayed he'd come back and he has. I'm just so glad he is alive!

Goodbye Barnabas

2009-09-22T19:25:00.001-07:00

I am so sad tonight. Probably very few people would understand, but my husband I have grown very attached to a large toad that has hung around our house for a few months now. He has probably lived here longer than that, but in the past few weeks he grew more and more familiar with us and could be found on the back porch every morning and night. (The first time I spotted him I thought he was stuck inside a sprinkler head valve hole and I forced him -gently - out. He then ended up "stuck" in a smaller place, and after I got him out of that place, I realized he had never been stuck to begin with and I had only succeeded in inconveniencing him when he was trying to find a cool place to rest for the day!)

Most recently, Richie and I got used to looking out for Barnabas (of course I named him) to keep the dogs from lunging at him when we took them out. The other night Salem scared him onto my screened in porch and I left the door open all night so he could find his way back out easily. I can't even remember Barnabas not being around; he has become part of the family, an outdoor pet. In fact, last week I had just introduced him to the CFZ blog.

All this time, I have been worried that Barnabas might end up getting hit by one of our vehicles since he does hang out around the driveway, and I have tried to keep an eye out for him when I get in the truck. Well, this evening on my way to the gym, as I was pulling out the driveway, I saw that is exactly what had happened: Barnabas lay dead in the driveway. Even though I'd worried about this very thing, I just really wasn't prepared to see it. I guess it sounds ridiculous that I've been upset all evening. I still can't believe Barnabas isn't sitting in his cute warty fatness out on the porch, his throat pumping, acting cool while we pass by with the lunging dogs. After all this time, he knew he was safe around here. And then we kill him with our stupid vehicles.

I never thought about the possibility of growing attached to a wild toad, but I did and now I feel a big emptiness. Three times I've gone outside to look for Barnabas on the porch tonight. I keep hoping that some other giant toad happened by, not Barnabas who owned the porch and felt safe here.

Goodbye, big, sweet, Barnabas. We miss you terribly.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

2009-09-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

This is a far cry from the innocence of Bill Cosby's show, but it keeps us entertained at the high school level. These are just a couple stories from the past week:

First of all, one of my friends teaches a class with some pretty thuggish sophomores. At the beginning of this class, a student from her previous class burst in saying that she had left her purse in the room. The purse was soon located, but was missing its wallet. Knowing one of students in the present class had taken it, my friend told the class that someone had better cough up the money or they would sit there till the cows came home, ignoring even the lunch bell. Everyone put on the pressure until one boy finally produced the wallet -- along with its $200.00. Awhile after the incident, some of the other less-than-ethical students asked this boy why he had given up the wallet. Wide-eyed, he replied, "Because I didn't know what she meant by the cows coming home!" I don't know if he's afraid of cows or what, but it worked.

Second story: Today after lunch one student in my 3rd hour came barreling down the hall and plowed into another student standing in the doorway. Appalled, I said, "You need to say excuse me!" He turned immediately to the other student and said enthusiastically, "Good job!" Confused, I asked, "Why did you say 'good job'?" "Because he didn't cry this time!" he replied happily.

Post-it Note Pilferage

2009-09-06T06:35:00.000-07:00

My high school students on the whole place value on things that matter little to me: tennis shoes, video games, skateboards, etc. But there is one thing that for the past three years we end up nearly fighting over: sticky notes.

I occasionally give an assignment in which the students work in groups to place answers on sticky notes and put them on the board. (If they are finding the three types of irony in a story, I will have the board divided by the three types of irony and they will post the sticky note in the appropriate column.) I always buy very colorful sticky notes to make the exercise appealing. The first year that I did the exercise, I noticed that I wasn't getting back as many unused sticky notes as I thought I should. It turned out that the students were stashing away the unused sticky notes and I had to demand their return.

Well, I didn't really do the sticky note thing much last year, and by this year I guess I had forgotten about the hoarding issue. Last week I did my first sticky note exercise of the year, then moved on to something else. Later in class, one boy went to sign out for the bathroom. As he raised his arm to write, some bright pink sticky notes hit the floor.

"Where did those come from?" I asked.

"I dropped them," he said. I am guessing they had been stuffed in his pants waist or something.

"I need them back," I said. "Those are mine." Realizing this might be a class wide problem, I said to the whole class, "I need the unused sticky notes back. They are mine -- I bought them with my money."

There was a pause…then one student shuffled to my desk and laid down a stack of sticky notes. Another student followed suit, then another. The procession grew as stacks of sticky notes were dropped into my desk, creating a colorful assembly. It was like the accusers of the adulteress who dropped the stones and walked away -- all were guilty.

Normally, I am infuriated by low ethics, or assumptions of entitlement. But these were kids and the items, in their minds, were just little slips of paper -- irresistible ones apparently. (And at least they were being honest now.) I looked up at my aid and we both started laughing. I think I am going to try to find a way to invest in some sticky notes in bulk for the kids at Christmas.

The Dance Nazi

2009-08-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

I was not allowed to dance growing up. By the time my parents relaxed their belief in this doctrine, I had already grown into an adult who felt she had no ability to dance; so whenever the situation presented itself, I always shied away.

My first realization that I had at least a limited ability to dance came in my Jazzercise classes. Later, I took some line dancing classes and was told I was a natural. Eventually I took up Belly Dancing via an instructional video. The Belly Dancing prepared me for Zumba, a Latin dance workout at the gym where I met the challenges of more complicated foot and hip work. I do most of Zumba with confidence now, always as attentive to style and flair as I am technical precision. I was thrilled when a recent observer at Zumba told me I was the best she saw in the class. While Zumba may not be all that difficult, I’ve still come a long way and have figured my shy days are over.

However, my newfound confidence failed to prepare me for what I would face at a church benefit last night. Since my husband is out of town, I asked my cousin to go along, telling him there would be, among other things, wine tasting and line dancing. When the dance instructor brought us out to the floor, I expected line dancing instruction. Instead, she paired us off by gender and started teaching us basic ballroom dancing. When I realized I was going to learn this kind of dancing in front of a room full of people (most of them watching instead of dancing), I almost panicked. I always eventually get a new dance move down, but rarely while someone is watching. Oh well, at least I would be dancing with my cousin whom I don’t mind making a fool of myself in front of.

But that wasn’t the case either. My first partner was my priest. So putting the obvious irony aside with regards to my upbringing, the situation was made more complicated (in my mind) by the fact that he is already an expert ballroom dancer. I have never in my life danced with a partner. I went into a physical state resembling rigor mortis. Nobody but God knew the trepidation I felt, but I was flashing back to my fencing days when I would get hammered by the superior opponent with a roomful of other fencers watching.

But, as with fencing, I stuck it out and tried to learn. I made it through the Texas Two-step, but my nervousness prevented me from going beyond the most basic move. I realized how much more comfortable I am doing semi-striptease moves at Zumba. Go figure. Next came the East Coast Swing. I was dancing with my cousin by this time, and had relaxed somewhat, when suddenly some old lady I don’t even know came out of the dining area to speak into my ear. “Honey, don’t lift your feet so high. Just shift your weight from foot to foot and you won’t stand out so much.”

I mean, seriously, had somebody hired her? Was this blatant preying on my insecurity divine retribution for disregarding the doctrine of my youth? I thanked her and did exactly as she had said. I continued to dance, but every cell in my body was screaming at me to just sit down. After all, apparently I was “standing out.” I remembered the fencing strip, and I told myself I would get through this too and I would LIKE it.

However, at another point another woman whose face I can’t even place right now physically grabbed me out of the blue and got right in my face, saying: “If you would stop watching other people’s feet…” and proceeded to lecture me on my technique. By now I was aghast. Had I stepped into a parallel world where doctrine was to dance and dance correctly if you wished to enter the kingdom?

After the instruction was over, I went to hide against the wall and have a drink. When finished with my drink, I put the bottle in the trashcan. Right then, the first old lady, the one apparently hired by God to keep an eye on me, walked over to the trashcan, removed my bottle, looked directly at me as she lowered the bottle into a recycle box, and said, “The bottles go in here.”

Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. A few minute later, the dance instructor and one of the men in the church were doing some fancy swing dancing, and everybody was watching. I was filming it on my phone, and just as it ended, this same old lady made her way over to me. “Honey, did you watch their feet while they were dancing?”

“No,” I said, my tone implying I had neither wished to watch their feet nor did I now wish to hear about their feet.

“Well,” she said, “They were not lifting them very high – they were just shifting their weight from side to side.”

“Yes,” I said, not bothering to hide my growing irritation, “I quit doing that when you told me to the first time.”

“Because when people do that,” she went on, “All it does is bounce their boobies.”

“Oh, is that what I was doing?” I asked wryly.

“No,” she said, then finished her commentary on the important of footwork and walked away.

“Thank you!” I called after her, assured by her obvious lack of perception that my sarcasm went undetected.

Matt was already doubled in laughter, his head having been turned away from her.

I won’t even go into the jokes we shared the rest of the evening, most of them about bouncing boobies, which Matt said should be the name of the dance studio she really ought to open one day, with all her knowledge.

I think the greatest feat I accomplished last night was just sticking with it and trying to have fun, despite the busy bodies that harassed me. I am certain they meant well, but I suspect that the first person to declare dancing a sin must have had an experience similar to mine.

Eating pastries and being visited by the devil

2009-07-21T08:09:00.000-07:00

Two weird dreams last night:

In the first, I was trying to find the house of a lady with whom I had some MUFON business to discuss. When I got there, she was having another meeting in which there was no place for MUFON issues. I took a seat with her other guests and had some pastries. Normally, I don't get to eat in my dreams because I wake up right when I am about to take a bite. But this time I was able to eat several pastries and they were delicious. The last one had a hint of cream cheese. I had just started chewing my first bite of it when my cell phone woke me up in real life. It was only after 6:00 am and, seeing who it was and knowing it would not have been an emergency, I let it go to voicemail. Then I lay awake in irritation at being unable to finish that cream cheese pastry. I have never been able to go back to sleep and continue a dream. I did go back to sleep for a couple more hours, which led to my next dream:

A college-age looking boy came to my house and was talking casually to me. After a few minutes, I noticed that his shirt was changing colors and his hair was different. I told him he was the devil and he admitted it. So I banished him in Jesus' name and he disappeared. But he returned a couple hours later when I was out somewhere with some people. This time he followed me around chatting humorously, and after awhile I had to remind myself he was evil, because he was proving to be enjoyable company. That's all I can remember of that dream. (Would rather it not be interpreted...)

A weirder kind of Deja Vu

2009-07-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

Recently I was typing an email to somebody about a really unpleasant situation I had run into last week. As I explained how I had been verbally attacked by a woman I barely know, I had a moment of deja vu in which I suddenly remembered that my friend Becka had experienced that same thing about a year go and had told me about it. In fact, I remembered her telling me that she had had to take the same steps I was taking to defend herself from this person's venom. She had emailed, just as I was... I could remember her enthusiasm as she told me, and when I tried to remember the specifics of her situation, I happened to look up at the TV and something seemed familiar about what it was showing, and then the feeling faded. Suddenly, it was as if none of that memory of Becka had happened. I tried to recapture the memory, but it was simply nonexistent. Nothing like that had happened to Becka, not that she had ever told me anyway. The entire "memory" had been a deja vu.

I was mystified. Deja vu normally makes present events seem like they have already taken place for you, not for somebody else.

Fast Food and the Breakdown in Communication

2009-07-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

I just went through DQ for my favorite treat -- a Brownie Batter Blizzard. The girl came over the speaker and asked for my order.

I said, "I would like a Brownie Batter Blizzard, please."
She said something that I couldn't quite hear, but I figured she was asking what size, since I had forgotten to say.

"I would like a small one, please." I said.

"So, that's one medium and one small Brownie Batter Blizzard?" she asked.

"No, I'm sorry," I said, realizing that she had probably asked if I had wanted anything else. "I just want ONE, SMALL, Brownie Batter Blizzard."

She gave me my total and told me to pull to the second window. When I got to the second window, she said, "So that's one Medium Brownie Batter blizzard?"

I looked at her a second, then repeated in the exact same way I had just said it 15 seconds ago, "No, I would like one small Brownie Batter Blizzard."

She looked a tad distressed, and that's when I saw that the girl behind her was already filling a medium cup up with ice cream. I gave up. "I'll just take a medium, that's fine." I said. Apparently it was important to them that I eat a medium blizzard today. I really shouldn't let them down.

Then the girl at the window indicated to the girl filling up my blizzard, "She says you used to be her English teacher." I took a second look at my former student and greeted her.

Then the girl said, "She can't speak good English," to which I laughed good naturedly, and she shut the window overcome with giggles at having teased her friend. (I refrained from telling her that perhaps the problem was she couldn't understand English.)

All was pleasant as I completed my transaction, and my blizzard was delicious. However, while I realize that we did have a miscommunication at first, I nevertheless feel that we are running out of options when it comes to communication these days. It used to be that we relied on the spoken word, but that seems to be failing us. Dairy Queen isn't the first -- nor will it be the last -- place to get my very simple order wrong. Whataburger just about grinds to a halt when I ask for a plain dry cheeseburger with jalapenos. They can't resist just dabbing a little mustard on it. They just can't fathom that I mean what I say. Or perhaps they aren't listening, or maybe they disagree with my choice of food and they have a better idea.

One of these days, we are just going to have to bring hand puppets along and act out a skit for the benefit of the fast food staff. One puppet will ask for a small blizzard, then the other puppet will try to prepare a medium blizzard. Then the first puppet will pull out three different blizzard cup sizes and sing a song about small, medium, and large, until the other puppet understands and even sings the chorus himself. Once the staff can sing along, I will know they understand, and I'll get what I ordered.

That's what we are going to have to do eventually to get good service.

Houston, we have a problem.

2009-07-14T19:15:00.000-07:00

As always, I must pay homage to a terrible day – two actually – even though they were somebody else’s terrible days.

Yesterday began a two-day nightmare for my cousin Matthew. He tried to board a plane to Israel only to discover that his passport, which was due to expire in less than six months, was not acceptable. The group he was flying with left without him. But let me back up about 6 hours…

Yesterday morning, Matthew was in his apartment on his phone, probably talking to his girlfriend and anticipating his drive to the airport. Suddenly, his front door opened and in walked a stranger, key in hand. They both stared at each other in shock. Turns out the property management company for Matt’s apartment had advertised that his side of the duplex was for rent and given the key to a hopeful client. After awkward explanations were exchanged, Matt drove to the property management place and administered a well-deserved lecture.

It was several hours later that Matt would find himself returning home with his luggage, his friends en route to Tel-Aviv. I had just returned home from taking my dad to the airport for the very flight Matt had just missed when I got a call from my brother Bryan. Bryan, who had been Matt’s ride home from the airport, was driving a borrowed truck. He had been unaware that this truck’s gas meter was broken, until it ran out of gas miles from their destination. Bryan and Matt were now sitting on the side of the road in 106 degree weather. Fortunately, they were only 25 minutes from me.

I rescued them with a gas can, and returned home. Meanwhile, it was determined that Matt would apply for an emergency passport in Houston today and hopefully catch a flight this evening. Getting very used to feeling useful, I offered to drive him. (He had done the same for us on our recent trip to the UK.)

We left my house at 4:30 this morning and arrived at the passport office sometime after 9:00. When it was Matt’s turn at the passport office window, he could barely get his request in before the lady proceeded to lecture him in the rudest manner I have ever witnessed from somebody in a professional setting. She literally rolled her eyes in disgust every time he tried to explain himself. “How long have you known about this trip, sir?...Six months! You had six months…!” And on she went until Matthew was stunned silent and I was ready to go through the window and throttle her, security guards be damned. Matthew is easily the most prepared person – next to my husband – that I know. Had he known that a passport due to expire in four months is considered already expired, had he not used the logic that comes so easily to him which told him that the expiration date is exactly that – an expiration date, he would have had his passport renewed. This lady knew nothing, yet she talked down to him in the most demeaning way. (Think Madea from “Madea’s Family Reunion” without the humor.) The only thing stopping me from telling her off was the fact that Matt was at her mercy.

When she walked away for a moment, I said to Matthew, who had turned very red, “Pray. Just pray. She is out of line.” Then I proceeded to do the same, but when I did, my anger increased until I had to stop and apologize to God for the turn my prayers had started to take.

The lady returned to inform Matt that had he been issued new tickets from Delta, she could have given him a passport today. But he hadn’t. Matt staggered. Delta had told him the very opposite – that he could not get new tickets until he got a new passport. In the end, she told him the soonest he could have his passport was tomorrow at 2:30. This Israel trip is to be 10 days only. Matt had now lost two of them. We were also going to have to find lodging.

We returned to the car where Matt made several calls, meeting with frustration at every turn: Delta said they needed to hear from Matt’s travel agency, but when he called the travel agency he only got the voicemail. He finally managed to reach his travel agent (who is currently in Jerusalem with the group) only to end up having to yell over the singing of a choir halfway through the conversation. It was so loud I could hear it. By now, he was literally shaking. Meanwhile, I sat next to him brainstorming ways to coerce Delta, who had failed to issue him tickets, into paying for our lodging, and to get the lady at the passport office fired. We both sat consumed with our plans until he finally reached Delta.

By the end of Matt’s incredibly long phone ordeal, he had learned that all Wednesday flights were booked and he would have to take a Thursday flight. Now he was missing three days of the trip, but he seemed calmer, because, frankly, I think he had run out of energy to care. I temporarily abandoned my plans for revenge and we went to find a place to eat.

We agreed it was essential that beer be part of our meal, so I searched for breweries in my GPS system. That started the next nightmare, as my GPS system led us in a maze only to end up at a closed brewery. I entered another brewery, and this time we were led through even more of a maze across the city. (We had driven in a similar fashion to find a Starbucks earlier in the morning, and never had found it.)

I finally said: “Watch us end up back at the passport office with the brewery right behind us.”

Matt replied: “That lady from the office will be standing there tapping her foot, saying ‘Not today. Just keep on drivin’.”

We both collapsed into laughter, and I felt my anger fading. By making this lady a caricature, Matt had extinguished my anger in a way prayer couldn’t. God can use anything, including humor, to set our hearts right again. We finally found an open brewery, but it took about as long to find a place to park.

We enjoyed a delicious meal and an I.P.A. beer. Matt talked to his girlfriend for a bit while I read my book, and we left feeling refreshed. We could now head home, as Matt had decided it would be more expensive to find lodging. The plan was (and still is): he will return tomorrow for his passport, and Thursday I will drive him to Austin for his flight.

Now we were in the parking garage, but could not find our car. We ended up looking on every floor (of which there were only four, fortunately) and found it at last. Surely, this was the last hurdle.

Of course it wasn’t. At some point, we realized we were almost out of gas; in fact, the needle had passed the last notch and was almost on the ‘E’ itself. I search for gas stations in my GPS and it showed that one was very close, just a straight shot down the road. However, when we turned the car to exit the parking lot we had pulled into temporarily, the GPS got confused and told us to take a turn. I should have said something – I noticed that the map still showed just a straight shot – but after a U-turn and a long drive to the next exit, we ended up literally feet from where we had been. It was like the fates were nothing but cruel. But at least we had made it. And I had to use the bathroom after the beer and then the Starbucks we had finally found.

I walked into the bathroom and thought there must be some mistake – we had taken a wrong turn and ended up on the backside of hell. I have never seen such a horrific looking bathroom in my life. Even had it been clean it was an eyesore, with rust and mold and cracks and holes, the walls and floor protruding in places as if possessed. Somebody had attempted to flush the toilet at some point and not succeeded…and that’s all I will say about that. I made a concerted effort not to touch, look at or even think about anything in that bathroom, lest I become contaminated.

Once I made my escape, I hurried to the car and dug for my Purell. After slathering on, I rubbed some on the door handle and even on the things I had pulled from my purse to find the Purell. Just as I replaced it, Matthew got in the car. “That was the worst bathroom I’ve ever seen –“ I began.

“So was mine – I need the Purell!” He threw his hand out, looking straight ahead as if recovering from fresh trauma.

We briefly rued the bathroom’s condition, but there was little more to say, and we lapsed into wordless horror until we recovered.

Eventually, we were chatting and laughing again, but then Matt got on the phone with his girlfriend, allowing my mind to drift, and I ended up missing an exit. I got off the next exit and came to a fork in the road, during which time Matt, still on the phone, said, “Circle! Circle!”

“Circle” meant nothing to me, as I wasn’t sure which road made a circle. “Left” or “right” would have sufficed. I went left, and that’s when Matt got off the phone and made me get out of the driver’s seat.

But we made it, safely, and in the end that’s what counts. Matt goes back to Houston tomorrow, and flies out Thursday, so keep him in your prayers.

Loch Ness Tour

2009-07-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

So after years of imagining what it would be like to touch the murky waters of the great, long-necked Nessie, I finally made it to Loch Ness. This came close to the end of my UK tour in which I had already enjoyed the things I was most excited about and considered the rest of the trip more an indulgence of my husband Richie’s search for his Scottish roots. However, as we made our way across the dock into the boat, I reminded myself this had been a life-long dream. Perhaps I would have been more excited had I expected to see something, be it a mystical monster or an overgrown eel. But not only had I resigned myself to seeing nothing because sightings are so rare, I was now questioning whether or not there really is something to see.

Be that as it may, I stood on the deck and concentrated on the waters – not muddy and brown, like I had imagined after hearing of their murkiness for years, but a dark, lovely teal – soaking in every sight, smell, and sound to imprint them on my mind. As the boat began moving across the water, I suddenly thought how much like Galilee the lake looked, with similar surrounding hills. This realization further dampened my attempt at a mystical state of mind. It made Loch Ness just another lake, even less so when I considered that the presence of Christ on Galilee was a historical certainty – and Nessie just a possibility.

The boat took us only a very short distance before we started hearing something about castle ruins that we would be visiting. Oh - I looked to the right - there was a castle here? Of course. Surely I’d seen the pictures before. They had to present some other attraction, some…actual reason for being here. They made a big deal out of this castle called Urquhart, something about Jacobites and Robert the Bruce we had been hearing about all through Scotland. I began to feel extremely ignorant. Was I about to visit a historically significant sight of which I knew nothing? Had I really come all this way only to look for Nessie? Worse yet, did the tour guides know that many of us had come for just that? How they probably had a laugh every day, after presenting “mysterious” sonar readings on pictures they had taken with their cell phones – just as our guide had. I was glad I hadn’t been impressed. Again, the feeling that the Loch Ness phenomenon is based more on hype than anything substantial began nagging at me.

It suddenly seemed very important that I become acquainted with the Jacobites and Robert the Bruce (even though I’d looked him up twice this week and still wasn’t entirely sure). I couldn’t have come all this way for nothing.

But until we docked, I studied the waters closely, determined not to miss anything if, after thirty-five years of a few mostly explainable events, I was suddenly rewarded with something extraordinary. The waters were constantly waving, creating small, foamy white caps on the surface. Once in awhile a long, uniform wave would create a dark line, but nothing I could possibly have mistaken for a creature. No head, no neck, no silhouette, nothing. Urquhart Castle, which now seemed a large, gloomy symbol of my present academic deficiency, was drawing ominously near. Through the loud speaker, a voice had been presenting all kinds of information on the castle’s history, but I couldn’t hear well over the engine and the wind, and I don’t listen very well when there is no speaker in sight (OK - except to George Noory).

At last we docked and made our way up the many steps to the castle, parting with my mom who opted out of the castle tour to have coffee at the visitor’s center. The first part of the castle I chose to enter contained a prison. I ascended the stairs to a niche and peered through the bars of a cell where I was startled by a dummy prisoner. This reminded me of a Ghost Hunters episode in which Grant was stunned by the appearance of a ghostly face when he peered into a similar area. I reflected fondly on this very exciting episode a moment then retreated to the visitor’s center. I had finally resigned myself to the fact that the next half hour would not be adequate time for an education that would foster appreciation of this castle. I bought some souvenirs for friends before rejoining our tour group.

We were bused to Loch Ness museum, where we were herded from room to room to watch a video on the history of Nessie. The video began with the story of St. Columbia who ordered the beast to stop killing people and the beast complied. None of the proceeding stories offered the same delicious mixture of religious and crypto content to hold as much of my interest Moreover, too many pictures or sightings had proved to be hoaxes, seagulls, logs, deer, seals, or ducks. I found the theory of the sturgeon interesting, but very little was said on that.

In one room, we could not tell from which wall the video would be shown. When a picture finally appeared on one end of the room, we hustled to the other end. Then suddenly the video began behind us, and we hurried to the opposite end again. I think we all felt a little like herded cattle, and were exhausted.

I enjoyed the last couple video presentations because we were able to sit down, and my back hurt. When the final video was finished, we waited in momentary, awkward silence and then exited. By now we had only five minutes to inspect the gift shop before we needed to be on the bus. (“4:25!” our guide emphasized repeatedly.) But I couldn’t find the checkout counter. It seemed there were many pseudo-checkout counters – elevated floors with a counter that, once approached, would have no clerk and no register. After wandering stupidly around for several minutes, I finally asked somebody and was directed to a rather hidden stairway leading to a floor I would have never noticed. I felt like I had advanced to the new level of a video game.

Almost to the counter, I suddenly realized I had been shopping for everybody but me, and I still had no souvenir for myself. Spotting some pewter key chains, I snatched one that bore Nessie on one side and Urquhart castle on the other – a fitting memento for my experience. I was a little resentful that I didn’t have more time to carefully consider my purchase, but it was almost “4:25!”.

Our guide was late. We stood confused, in the heat on the parking lot for several minutes until the bus finally pulled up, full of new tourists. Our guide hadn’t told us he would be picking up a new group, and this revelation made curious his permission for us to leave on the bus any items which we hadn’t wished to carry. Slightly stressed, I made my way to my old seat to find two new occupants in it. Fortunately, the small shopping bag I had stuffed into the pocket of the preceding seat was still there.

“This is mine,” I said, as I snatched the bag up. My words were meant to be merely an explanation, but the occupant’s wide, apologetic eyes told me I had likely sounded three years old. I made my way with Richie and Mom to the very back of the bus, during which time a lady from the new group snapped at Richie to hurry up because she was hot. I was sorry I hadn’t heard the exchange, because I would have gladly helped her into the lake to cool off.

Once crammed in the back seats, peering at the heads of the new group I now resented, we were on our way. The guide, who had specifically been using mine, Richie’s, and my mom Barbara’s name since the beginning of the tour, was talking again. Of course, I wasn’t listening too closely, but suddenly I heard him say: “On the way to Urquhart Castle, Barbara from Indiana asked me, ‘Will there be anybody playing bagpipes at the castle?’ I told her no, because…”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said because I was now staring agape at my mom. Had she truly asked such an asinine question?

She was just finishing applying her lipstick, and hastily whispered, “I didn’t ask that.”

“Did you ask him anything at all?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

We both sat back a moment to consider the guide’s ridiculous fabrication, and suddenly we were laughing. It was exactly the kind of laughter that would possess me as a child in church, complete with silent convulsing, tears and the hopeless inability to stop. Richie was annoyed, as he couldn’t concentrate on what the guide was saying with us falling apart right next to him. The idea of my mom – or anyone – asking such an air-headed question was too much. We attempted to stop laughing several times, but would lose it again, and continued this way until it was time to exit the bus. We never knew why the guide had chosen to make my mom look like an idiot, but it was the best entertainment of the day. If it wasn’t enough that we had harbored secret hopes of seeing Nessie, now we had a false reputation as stupid Americans who expected to hear live bagpipes being played at castle ruins.

Only my husband Richie, who is a far better listener than I, learned some things of educational value on our Loch Ness tour. He toured the entire castle and took pictures, reading all the plaques, and he listened intently to the guide – at least up until my mom and I disrupted things. In my defense, I have come away with a 700+ page biography on Mary, Queen of Scots. It might not help me with the Jacobites at Urquhart Castle, but at least I’ll be better able to appreciate Edinburgh Castle more the next time around. And the only way I would visit Loch Ness for the lake again is if I could descend it in a submarine and explore the life that does inhabit it. For now, I’ll just settle for the web cam view.

Saw a Scottish Rat Yesterday

2009-06-23T05:33:00.000-07:00

While walking up to Edinburgh Castle yesterday, I saw a little rat eating by the side of the road. I was delighted. I haven't seen a rat, specifically a wild one, forever. I watched it hold its food between its hands and munch with the concentration only a rat can. It seemed oblivious to us. I took the opportuniy to study its features to make sure it WAS a rat and I'm satisfied it was. (Rats and mice don't look alike to me anyway, but I was puzzled at its small size. It was the size of a domesticated teenage rat. Then again, my little boys were always chunkers even for adult rats.) I was just examining its long back feet when it must have finished its meal and suddenly shot away. I only caught glimpses of it afterward as it darted speedily through the tall weeds up the hill with another rat trailing it. It made my day.

The customer isn't always right in Scotland

2009-06-21T15:12:00.000-07:00

After many wonderful and meaningful experiences in my visit to the U.K., I have chosen to blog about something insignificant and irritating. I don't know why I do that. It's just more fun, I guess.

This is my first night in Scotland. Richie and Mom and I were hungry and found an Italian place to eat since the pubs weren't serving food anymore. The restaurant was advertised as having 2 famous Italian chefs, but I didn't recognize their names. We ordered pizza. When the server brought our pizza, he asked if there was anything else we needed. In a moment of rare selflessness, I remembered that Richie likes parmesan cheese on his pizza. (I myself only sprinkle crushed red peppers, if anything.) So I said, "Parmesan cheese." The server stared at me like I had sprouted gills, and Richie looked embarrassed and said quietly, "They don't do that." It was obvious I had committed some horrendous faux pas -- probably like asking for A1 on a gourmet steak or something.

Anyone that knows me will understand how I was feeling right then. I absolutely despise being made to feel like a fool. I was only trying to help my husband. But the server, after his gaze of disgust, returned with the cheese.

"This --" he began, sternly, pointing to my pizza, "Has melted cheese on it!" My humiliation was now turning to anger. "This is dry cheese!" he said, pointing to the parmesan. Then he launched into a lecture, completely ignoring my attempts to defend myself. My attempts consisted of pointing repeatedly at Richie and insisting it was for him and that I -- and here I would point to myself and shake my head -- did not put parmesan cheese on my pizza. He never heard me. He finished his lecture, set the cheese in front of me, then said, "But go ahead!" And walked off.

I was furious now. I wanted to empty the bowl of parmesan cheese over his head. My mom made me feel better by reminding me that I was a the customer and who was paying, me or him? I felt better. And deciding I did not like the man made me feel better too, somehow.

About 10 minutes later, Richie decided he was angry too, so he put a bunch of the parmesan cheese on his pizza. We could only hope the server noticed and was chagrined.

And that's the story of how I got yelled at by an Italian my first night in Scotland.

Storms

2009-06-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

These are pics of a couple storms from 2005. The first pic is of a tornado front that was passing directly overhead the neighborhood we lived at the time.

The last couple show a severe thunder storm that created a thick, vivid line across the length of the sky over town. It was the weirdest cloud formation I've ever seen, and the pictures don't do it justice. As the storm approached, the clouds split right at the line so that it looked like there were clouds on the bottom, clouds on top, and rain inbetween.

Disarming Cuteness

2009-06-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

A couple months ago, I had to administer a test to a group of freshmen, most of whom were not my own students. Initially, I was dreading it. Earlier in the year, I had had this same group of kids for another standardized test and they had proven rowdy and rude. This second time, however, I saw a different side to them.

It started the afternoon when we were discussing what movie we should watch during the lag time that the other grade levels were taking their tests. Somebody mentioned The Aristocats, and within minutes, a very macho football player was hopping from one foot to another singing, "do mi so do do so mi do..." and a female student joined him. They walked around, oblivious to any attention, happily singing this tune. Anyone that sees this as perfectly natural behavior for freshmen hasn't observed high school freshmen in awhile, particularly these. Not only do many of them look much older, they are far too cool to be singing cutsey little songs. And I later learned that this particular football player, who looks like a junior at least, is more known for being cocky than for singing Disney tunes.

Mystified by their uncharacteristics childlikeness, I paid close attention to The Aristocats, and when the song came on I totally got it.

Since then, I have found myself singing the song, stopping short of hopping from one foot to another; there is something addictive about it. Kudos to the animators and musicians of this movie for breaking the tough exterior of a high school football player.

Incidentally, this sort of set the tone for the week, and I had such a great week with these kids that I didn't want to see them leave. Next time I have a bad class, I think I'll break out The Aristocats.

Lucky last day of work

2009-06-08T19:52:00.001-07:00

Today was the last workday of the school year. After work, Jamie, Karina and I headed to Applebees for a celebratory drink and I was telling them a couple cool things that had happened today in which two grading dilemmas worked themselves out in amazing ways. Jamie was remarking on how my life just seemed to work out in such ways, and I should really play the lottery. This suggestion was reinforced when the total for my bill came to 7.77. The girls insisted I go buy a lottery ticket immediately.

I never play the lottery and I had no idea how to go about it and asked Jamie to go with me. We burst into the store, giddy as two girls who are officially out of school (even though we are teachers) and who have high expectations of winning the lottery. I remarked that I had just missed a call from my dad, to which Jamie replied, "Don't tell him you are gambling." Little did she know how accurate she was -- my father is staunchly opposed to playing the lottery, or even playing games at the fair because he considers it gambling. (I just consider it a donation to the tax base.) "Oh, yeah," I agreed with Jamie, hitting the button to play dad's voicemail. Because my phone, for some ungodly reason, defaults voicemails to speaker phone, dad's voice suddenly blared out into the store, "Hey, sweetheart!" I hastily clicked off the speaker, and looked just in time to see a man chuckling with laughter. He had apparently been listening to us from the moment we walked in.

Anyway, Jamie helped me pick the ticket and told me I had to pick the numbers to keep the good "mojo." We have all three planned for years now that when one of us wins, we will retire the other two. Karina wants to open a bakery, Jamie wants to open a bar, and I want to be a writer, but I wouldn't mind owning a bookstore. One of our other colleagues recently speculated on how much money we could make by running a brothel which a good many students we know would willingly staff. With our four businesses combined, we could call it "Bakery, Books, Boobs and Beer." But one-stop shops tend to lack a specific ambience. And I would rather stay at home and write anyway.

So I told Jamie what a bad influence she was on me, bought my ticket, and returned to my truck to find the front driver window was down and won't come back up. I thought about this all the way home as the wind whipped my hair and roared annoyingly in my ears. Today was supposed to be about GOOD mojo. So why did my window break right when I bought a ticket? I brushed aside my misgivings and played the song Perfect Day by Hoku.

I probably won't win the lottery tomorrow, but today it was fun pretending I will. Either way, I have to get my window fixed. But if you think about it, it broke on my last day of work, so I have plenty of time to get it fixed. That's pretty lucky.

The Island of Paradise

2009-06-06T07:48:00.000-07:00

Island of Paradise is a story of a cryptozoological investigation built into an odd but cohesive web of history, politics, and biographical reminiscences.

Jon Downes and Nick Redfern travel to Puerto Rico to make a documentary investigating claims of livestock killed by the legendary Chupacabra. Jon's admitted ulterior motive is, however, to find a snail specimen that he had encountered in a cave on his first trip to the island several years before. Between interviews of people with bizarre stories of alleged Chupacabra mischief, Jon doggedly explores the natural world around him, and does succeed in finding his snails. He also surmises that two aquatic anomalies, which he discovered on his previous trip, are living evidence of rapid evolution due to toxins from a long-ago UFO crash -- which he is convinced is not alien in origin. It isn't until Jon returns home to England that he reaches a conclusion regarding the alleged Chupacabra. Despite the largely paranormal reputation of the Chupacabra, Jon's theory is scientifically sound.

What could be a bland topic for the less scientifically minded is spiced with a lay-friendly narration of intriguing Puerto Rican natives, hearty drink, lots o' food, and poignant flashbacks to a childhood that explain the naturalist Jon is today.
The dark conspiracy theories involving the U.S. military, accompanied by Jon's controversial political persuasions, are tempered by disarming revelations which allow us glimpses into his own human imperfections. All in all, he has a startling ability to disappear into a labyrinth of narrative strands and emerge with each loose end neatly tied. All in all, a delightful read.

Readers of Nick Redfern will also enjoy post-chapter commentary by Nick himself.

The Power of Literature

2009-06-04T06:15:00.000-07:00

As a youth, I not only read the literature I was assigned in my English classes, I was often deeply moved by it. I remember being riveted to Where the Red Fern Grows in 6th grade, moved to write poetry about Pip and Estella during Great Expectations in 9th grade, and secretly crying over Hester Prynne and Rev. Dimmesdale at the end of The Scarlet Letter in 11th grade. (OK, I was kind of a nerd, but only in my English classes; I was quite the slacker in most other classes -- until college.)

But of all our assigned readings, it was the novel Of Mice and Men that impacted me into my adulthood. Being an animal lover, I was terribly upset when Candy's dog was shot. And when Candy later said to George that he should have shot his dog himself, I remember trying to understand why he said that. I am not sure why the meaning evaded me; After all, I was, in my humble opinion, reasonably intelligent, but I knew I wasn't fully getting it somehow. Perhaps it was because it had never occurred to my young mind that sometimes one had to perform unpleasant tasks out of kindness. After all, I lived a lifestyle in which other people performed unpleasant tasks: if an animal needed put down, you took it to the vet. And I had never had to make a hard decision along those lines.

Instead of asking my teacher or anyone else for an explanation, I contemplated Candy's statement for a long time. I honestly can't remember if I reached a better understanding once we reached the end of the book and the situation was parallelled when George shot Lennie (I hope I did), but as I grew older, I remember the meaning of the phrase becoming clearer and clearer to me. Of course I understood that it was better to die by the hand of a kind friend than an uncaring stranger, but besides that, I decided that as a pet owner (which is as close as I'll ever come to being a parent), I had a responsibility to be with my pet until the very end. Candy's words imprinted their truth on my heart and mind long before I would experience that truth myself.

But I finally did have to experience it when my first rat Horace came down with cancer. Horace was not only my first rat, but the first pet I would feel extremely close to, as anyone familiar with pet rats can understand. He sought my company so eagerly every day (despite having three cagemates) that whenever I happened to move within a couple feet of my bed -- on which I had a playground set up daily for roaming time -- Horace would leap through the air onto my back and scramble on up to my shoulder, where he would have peferred to ride all day if he could. I would answer the door to delivery men etc. with Horace perched happily atop my shoulder. We were as attached as any pet and owner could be. The day I realized I had done all I could do and was going to have to put him down, my convictions, thanks to Steinbeck, had long been set that I would see it through to the end.

I had been warned by my vet tech. that the vet usually didn't allow the owner present when putting down a rodent. They would sedate the animal first (through a mask), then plunge a needle into its heart to stop it. Sometimes blood would shoot high into the air and this would traumatize the owner. I walked into the vet prepared to put up a fight. I didn't care of I got splattered with blood -- Horace would have me by his side to the last. The vet, however, after a year of watching me withstand other graphic procedures (draining abcesses, cleaning them myself, giving shots, etc.) knew I was not fainthearted. So I was allowed into the back room, and I fixed my eyes on my darling little Horace. I watched everything, I watched the needle go in and I watched the last little beat of his heart. I could not allow myself to do any less for him, short of doing the procedure myself.

I was heartbroken. I am not a morbid person. In fact, I have such an aversion to emotional pain that I no longer have rats. Five years of loving and losing these most amazing creatures took its toll one my animal-loving heart. But I was able to withstand the death of my Horace because of the conviction that one line of literature had placed in my impressionable mind so many years ago.

A Miraculous Healing

2009-06-02T19:56:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine named Melodie (formerly "Aunt Melodie" when married to my uncle) was diagnosed with cancer many years ago. After much (and by much I would estimate hundreds of people) prayer, she was healed. I can't remember if she went into remission after treatments or if it was more miraculous, but her cancer left, by the grace of God. A minister in our (at that time) network of churches prayed specifically for God to let her live to raise her children. Now, most people would find it odd that he didn't just pray for complete healing and a normal life span, but he didn't feel that God wanted him to. I guess he felt God had other plans, plans to take her early or something, I don't know. Anyway, that was about 18 years ago. Last year (just as Melodie's youngest became a senior in high school), Melodie was diagnosed with stage four cancer -- the worst kind. She was to undergo chemo until they could get her to a point where she could have a bone marrow transplant. The doctors didn't expect her to have more than five years after the transplant.

Again, tons of prayer has been going up for her. I took the request to my fellow OSL members and told them about that one minister's prayer. I told it ruefully, not meaning that he was a bad person for not praying differently, but just that it was unfortunate that so specific a request was coming to pass. One of the ladies prayed against the "curse" that had been placed on Melodie. I felt uncomfortable hearing her call it that. After all, she never knew this particular minister or his walk with God or his good heart. He had sincerely prayed as he had felt led. But I kept quiet and agreed in prayer with her, knowing she too was praying sincerely for Melodie'a healing.

Today I received an email that after the first round of chemo, Melodie's stage four cancer is gone. Completely gone. The doctor's are stunned.

I just can't add any more words to this. I'm so happy for Melodie. I know it was the power of the combined prayers for her. I know there is no formula for praying a miracle. I don't understand why some people are healed and others aren't, or any of those big questions we can't answer, but I'm so excited for her. Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders you have done. Ps. 40:5

I have a new idol

2009-05-28T19:27:00.000-07:00

Her name is Robyn Rhudy and she knows everything about almost everything that I have a passion for -- animals, with emphasis on fish, with a special love for the Plecostomus. I stumbled across her page when searching for info. on Plecos and found that she is very much to fish what Nat Baldwin is to rats. And to top it all off, she is (like Nat) a hell of a writer - at least in the 'how to' genre. For somebody that is trying to convey what would otherwise be dry information, she weaves in subtle humor in short, simple sentences of superfluous but amusing tidbits. (ie. After arranging her live rock, she says, "There is some coralline algae and some green fuzzy algae too. A long brown worm (looked like a freshwater blackworm) came out and flailed around, and then I think it died.") I'm referring to the content on her web site, but she also has a book on fish pond care I intend to order.

She is several things I wish I were, including a scientist, an expert in fish care, and an entertaining writer. I don't think I am capable of becoming the first (I can always pretend, just like I pretend I am a cop by wearing an NYPD shirt around the house), I hope to someday become the second, and I strive daily to be the third. We are both sci-fi fans, though. (We could totally be best friends.)

So here is her web site, for anyone else interested in the care of fish and some other animals. She has great pics of her tanks as well.

Green Spider

2009-05-24T17:56:00.001-07:00

I found this spider on my back porch and cannot figure out what it is. Does anyone know?

A snake that plays dead

2009-05-15T16:18:00.001-07:00

These are pictures of a snake that explored my backyard for a good while this afternoon. As you can see, the Mocking Bird wasn't too happy. When the bird tried to frighten the snake off, the snake flattened his head and neck. I did some research, and concluded that this is a Western Hognose snake. Hognose snakes eat mostly toads and frogs, but will eat some birds and other small mammals. This snake is easily identifiable by its upturned snout, stout body, and ability to flatten its neck and head, much like a cobra. It is non-venomous, however, and if its flattening and hissing doesn't frighten you away,it will roll over and play dead. If you try to turn it upright, it will roll back over and attempt to fool you again -- ridiculous and endearing, if you ask me. Here is a video of one playing dead.

Pardon the quality of the pics with the bird -- I took them in a hurry through the screen.

[update: I have been informed by Jon Downes, director of the Centre for Fortean Zoology, that this snake isn't entirely harmless. Here is what he says: "Members of this genus have enlarged maxillary teeth and possess a slightly toxic saliva. In a few cases involving bites from this species, the symptoms reported have ranged from none at all to mild tingling, swelling and numbness. Nevertheless, they are generally considered to be harmless."]

2009-04-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

Richie and I went to interview another witness to a UFO sighting today. He wanted us to meet him at a Vietnamese restaurant. Our witness, whom I will call Mr. G, was eating when we arrived, but we just wanted drinks for now. I ordered water and coffee.

"Iced coffee or hot?" The server asked. Iced coffee? I thought. Gross. Wasn't it obvious I was a sophisticated coffee drinker who didn't need to mask the flavor by turning it into a milk shake, for heaven's sake?

"Hot." I said politely.

We made some small talk with Mr. G, discussing music and other interests, before getting down to business. In the meantime, the server returned with my coffee. She set before me a tall glass with what appeared to be an inch of cream at the bottom. There was also a spoon and a straw, and on the very top of the class perched an expresso-sized silver pot with a spout. Very dark coffee was slowly dripping from the bottom of the pot into my glass, mixing with the cream at the bottom. I watched it for a moment in uncertainty, then tentatively lifted the lid of the pot and peered in. It was still half full of coffee.

Mr. G, who was watching me, began laughing. I looked up self-consciously. "I'm not sure what to do." I said. I replaced the lid, assuming I should wait for the coffee to finish dripping into my glass.

However, it was taking a very long time, and even had I let it completely empty into my glass, it would have been only the most miniscule amount of coffee. I became increasingly confused when I noticed that the server had also placed a tall, lidded, plastic travel mug next to the glass of cream. I picked it up. It was hot. What was in here, I wondered. Maybe the server hadn't left it after all; maybe it had been left by a customer. I inspected the edge for signs of lipstick, then, with difficulty, tried to pry the lid off. Mr. G. began laughing again. At last the lid gave, and I discovered the travel mug contained hot water.

Now I looked from the mug of hot water to the glass of cream with coffee slowly dripping from the silver pot. I was bewildered and couldn't wait any longer. I signaled the server. "What do I do?" I asked, pointing to the glass and mug.

She regarded the glass with a slight smile. "You mix the coffee with the cream, and then you put ice in it. It's better with ice."

Better with ice? What was with this woman and iced coffee? Fine, I gave up and agreed to the ice, which she brought with delight. That still didn't answer the question of what to do with the mug of water, but I wasn't going to ask yet a second question in this ridiculously complicated ordeal. I let the coffee drip a little longer, then removed the siliver pot, and set it on top of the mug of water so it would drip the remaining coffee into there without making a mess. Then I mixed the coffee in my glass into the cream at the bottom, and found the cream was extremly thick, like sweetened condenced milk. It made a lucsious looking rich brown color, and I sipped some through the straw. Oh wow. It was sweet, but it was delicious. I had Richie taste some. Mr. G. was watching all this go down, I have no doubt, with almost as much interest as he had watched the UFO last week.

Before pouring the ice in, I realized I would need water to fill the glass up, and that is when the tall travel mug made sense. So I removed the dripping silver pot from the travel mug long enough to pour in some water (which now contained some coffee), then I added ice. It made a wonderful, sweet cool drink.

And that was my first experience with Vietnamese iced coffee. Apparently, Mr. G. goes there all the time and likes the coffee. I can't imagine why he didn't offer to help me out...

House Guests

2009-04-14T20:42:00.001-07:00

These two birds have chosen the rafter of our porch to sleep on every night. I don't know what kind of birds they are, or why they don't have a nest somewhere, but it is the most wonderful feeling to contribute to the shelter of this precious couple.

[update] I'm pretty sure these birds are Cave Swallows.

Sphinx Moth

2009-04-12T15:52:00.000-07:00

A little bit ago I spotted this intriguing little creature that I mistook at first for a humming bird. It flew like a humming bird, but upon closer examination, it appeared to be an insect. I did an online search and found it is a sphinx moth. I have never seen one before, to my recollection. My pics aren't that great, but when I went out to get more, the moth was gone. The most interesting thing I read about it is that its metamorphosis from a caterpillar occurs underground and it must dig its way to to the surface!

First Ghost Hunt

2009-04-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

Richie and I got a group together last night to investigate a famously haunted bridge about 30 miles away. It's called the Maxdale Bridge -- on a small road now closed to traffic -- and just beyond it is an allegedly haunted cemetery.

We took five friends -- Christopher and Carrie, Chris and Jessica, and my cousin Matthew. We also took a thermos of coffee, a video camera, and a voice recorder to pick up any EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomenon -- basically ghost voices below audible hearing). Chris, who is a fire-fighter tried to borrow a thermal imaging camera from the fire dept. but they just laughed at him.

We arrived just as the sun was setting, and apparently angered the resident of the only house in the area, because he started shooting off his shotgun randomly. We have heard that the people in the area are tired of ghost seekers coming to the bridge, particularly those juvenile delinquents who like to deface the headstones of those residents' ancestors. Of course, we would never do such a thing. We wouldn't even enter the cemetery because it is posted that nobody is allowed after sunset and will be fined 500 dollars. We discussed sending one person in at a time so that if anyone got caught we could split the fine among us, but we never followed through.

The shot-gun guy finally gave up and went inside. We wondered if he welcomed everyone like that. Two other cars were there when we arrived, and two more would come and go. Apparently, we had chosen a popular night to investigate, as it was a full moon.

Just as the sun set, and right before we were going to actually start our walk across the bridge with our voice recorder and cameras, a cop showed up and told us to leave. Fortunately, the father of Chris and Carrie (brother and sister) is a cop too, and Chris casually mentioned his dad's name to this cop. After that, the cop gave us permission to at least walk across the bridge, then he left as we began doing so -- which we took as permission to stay.

We made several walks across the bridge as we held out the voice recorder. Carrie, easily the life of any party, was brimming with excitement. If we were not going to see anything, she still just wanted to let out a blood curdling scream once, she said, because it would just be funny. I hoped she would not.

On one of these fairly uneventful walks across the bridge, I did feel something hit my leg that was too heavy to be a bug, but so tiny it could have been the tip of a pencil. I never did know what the source was, so it remains unexplained. Christopher tripped over a non-existent something or other that he felt right at his ankle. There was nothing there that it could have been. So that remains unexplained as well. At one point, I saw Carrie stop to peer at something on the bridge, and I walked up to see what she was looking at. Just as I started to bend down and look with her, she stood up and saw me right in front of her. When she had bent over, I had been a ways off, and as she hadn't heard me approach, she shrieked and went into an amusing dance of jitters. Other than that, no excitement.

However, on one of our last walks - this one with just Carrie, her brother Chris, his wife Jessica, and myself - Chris and Carrie suddenly stopped and pointed out some white thing in the distance. They were seeing something far out in the river bank right where the river bend began. According to them, this thing was "pacing" back and forth next to a large pale rock. I could see the large pale rock, but not the white thing moving near it. We stood there for a long time, and both of them would say, almost in unison, "There it is again!" They would ask if Jessica and I saw it. They would identify its exact position: "It's moving toward the rock! Ok, now it's moving away! Do you see it?" Alas, we didn't see it. I tried so hard to see it that my eyes would blur over until I couldn't see anything. Chris and Carrie would re-position us somewhere alongside the bridge and then point to try to get us to see it. I couldn't. I was so disappointed. I took comfort only in the fact that Jessica couldn't see it either. This thing moved so obviously, then would disappear, and their descriptions of it only frustrated us more.

Then Carrie took the opportunity to let out the meaningless, bloodcurdling scream that she had been suppressing all evening, and I immediately took off running across the bridge. I realized almost instantly her scream had been a joke, but loud noises always make me run. I ran until my fear subsided, then I turned back around. Carrie was almost rolling with laughter. Jessica and I were not amused.

Finally, we called the rest of the party over, and they all saw the white thing as well. They didn't see it with the frequency Chris and Carrie did, but they saw it a couple times. And then, to my dismay, Jessica saw it too, at least once. "I still don't see it, and I have nobody left who hasn't seen it." I said sadly. Nobody saw the thing as clearly as Chris and Carrie, but everyone (but me) saw something at some point, and they always agreed on where it was at the moment and in which direction it was moving. At one point, Richie took out a powerful flashlight that reached just far enough to slightly illuminate the playground of the white thing, and then Carrie said, "There it is! Where the light is!" And I STILL couldn't see it. They finally gave up and we moved on. My only comfort is that I am not susceptible to hallucinations based on suggestion.

Before we left, we decided to shine our headlights on the bridge for 10 seconds, then turn them out. The legend goes that if you do this, you will see the apparition of a man that hung himself. I personally didn't want to see such a sorrowful apparition. I would rather see a happy cowboy riding leisurely on a horse across the bridge, or fishing down by the river. But anyway, we tried the headlight trick several times, to no avail. As the group stood watching the tree and commenting on how they saw nothing, I sarcastically said, "Well, I see it!" This drew much laughter, which was the most I could hope for, on this very uneventful investigation.

After that, we drove to the cemetery where we stood respectfully by the fence and saw nothing there also. On my way up the incline to the cemetery fence, I almost fell in a ditch. Chris did fall in. We made sure to laugh hard about everything, by that point; otherwise, it would have been a complete nonevent. A few minutes later, we saw the approach of two cars, which sent some of us into a panic, even though we weren't technically doing anything wrong. Chris took off running to hide somewhere, and I hurried after him, planning to hide as well. But there was nowhere to hide, and we ended up running in aimless zigzags until we finally just stopped.

The only other amusing thing was that we came up with a name for our paranormal investigation group. Modeled after "The Atlantic Paranormal Society, better known as TAPS, Richie said we were the Texas Paranormal Society, which we realized is TPS. To pronounce that properly, you cannot use your vocal chords, and it sounds ridiculous. So we enjoyed using it as often as we could throughout the evening. While this was amusing enough to us, it is made less amusing by the fact that there really is a TPS, as well as a CTPS (Central Texas Paranormal Society) and a few others, which isn't surprising, but... well, it was fun last night.

After our investigation, we decided to go to the soccer field in Harker Heights, allegedly haunted by a Camanche Indian. But we didn't know where the field was, so we went home.

We still have some video to watch and a couple hours of voice recorder to listen to. Carrie said there will probably be an EVP saying, "Naomi can't see meeee." But that won't matter because I probably won't be able to hear it.

Lime Juice and Chupacabras

2009-03-28T17:08:00.000-07:00

Having a martini (or two) right before bed will definitely spark some strange dreams. Last night I can't remember much except that there was a stuffed chupacabras walking around the roof of the house where I grew up. Then I was somewhere in a super market and I was very excited to find lime juice in little bottles. It's not as weird as the dream I had where Dennis Rodman was a fish in my aquarium who could change colors, but it's strange enough. (And I just thought of it because I went looking for lime juice in the fridge. I kept thinking I had bought some in a cute little bottle, but then remembered that was in my dream last night.) So let Karina figure this one out.

Thank you, Bugs Bunny

2009-03-20T13:43:00.000-07:00

My cousin Matthew and I were just ruminating the phenomenon of finding exactly what you need when you need it. We got on this topic after noting how our friend Dana just happens to have the oddest bits of information stored in her mind for just that moment when you will ask. (Most recently, I mentioned aloud that I need to find some coyote skulls for a certain project, and Dana immediately recalled a taxidermy place in Sulphur Creek.) Likewise, I have always marveled at the memory of finding a shovel just feet away from a burning house that I needed to break a window to so I could rescue a dog inside. (Turns out there was no dog inside, but the shovel was there when I thought I needed it, nonetheless.) The best example, however, comes from Mock's Variety store, a tiny little dump within the small town of Parker City, Indiana. Mock's had nothing except exactly what you needed at the time -- for me it was an eye dropper one day to feed an orphaned baby bird. Another day it was a bag of Funyuns when I was craving Funyuns. My mom had the same experience, and was the first to point out this unique quality of Mock's. It may not have milk or bread, but by God, if you needed a self-adhesive bookplate with penguins on it, Mock's would certainly have it.

We have decided that Bugs Bunny must have worked in the backroom at Mock's Variety Store. After all, Bugs was famous for, among other things, being able to produce a pair of scissors or a butterfly net -- whatever was required -- from his magical, unseen pocket. Bugs Bunny could indeed be behind all such phenomena, and so, as Matthew ended our conversation, "Thank you, Bugs Bunny."

So now I can defend the Brown Recluse...or can I?

2009-03-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

So far, I have managed to placate those critical of my love for all living things, bugs included, by admitting I do kill Brown Recluses and anything else that poses a threat to me in an uncontrolled situation, but now it seems that even the brown recluse can be a friend.

[update] Ok, really, they make no link between the bite and the man's progress. Here is a more in-depth article, and yet there is no explanation offered for why his progress was attributed to the Brown Recluse bite. I am thrilled for the man, but I would like a scientific explanation, or at least a hypothesis.

Oh, and the guy has since been arrested for domestic assault. I guess healing doesn't make you a saint, but it's still a little disillusioning.

Broken Toe and Other Mishaps

2009-03-07T10:40:00.001-08:00

On Wednesday, 30 minutes into the morning, I ran my pinky toe into the bedside table. I hit the floor, simultaneously grabbing my toe with first “God” coming out of my mouth, which compelled me to suppress the second word which almost came of my mouth. I could have said one or the other, but could not, even under such duress, allow them to be said together. So I sat there a few seconds, emitting a long drawn out “f” sound until I was able to stand and hobble to the bathroom. My husband asked what had happened and I accusingly told him that in an effort to walk around him, I had run into the table -- my subtle hint that he had had no right to be standing where he had been standing at that moment. Ridiculous as it was, I left it at that and proceeded to bandage my toe. Not only was it likely broken, it was bleeding too.

For the past two days, against all attempts to walk normally, I have limped dramatically about the school hallways, drawing amusement from students, sympathy from co-workers, and that awkward silence from strangers who don’t know if I am injured or permanently disabled. It’s all very annoying.

It’s always possible that God allowed me to injure the toe to avoid kicking one of my students, as this week one particular student has become more of a pain than broken toe itself. I have long - and patiently - tolerated this student, renowned for disruption. Yesterday he sunk to a new level of disrespect, then had the audacity to threaten to bring a complaint against me. I found myself in a new kind of rage against a system that would even entertain complaints from a student whose single goal is to make life hell for teachers. I railed in my mind against advocacy for kids today, against indulgent parents, against an administration who gives more ear to students than teachers . He added that he would like to be transferred from my class and I laughed and told him to be my guest, sending him on his way.

I took my wounded self and wounded toe home, where I nursed my spirits with a Corona and Pet Society, a game I play on Facebook. Within minutes, I was appalled to find that Pet Society has changed the rules and one can no longer earn coins by brushing or petting his pet. It was already hard enough to earn coins, everything in the little shops is so expensive, and now they had taken away this. I knew their ultimate intent was to force players to break down and purchase coins with real money – a temptation I try to resist. Angry all over again, I sent an email of complaint to “Support,” then one to my mom – who also loves Pet Society – expressing my plan to boycott the game if they didn’t reinstate the feature. Then I shut my laptop and announced to Richie that I wanted to go visit the creek bank and watch the vultures come home. We have many vultures in our area and every evening before sunset, they congregate in groups before heading home to what I have assumed, based on information from one person, was the creek bank. (I had read that vultures carve nests out of hillsides so it made sense to me that they would nest in the hills above the bank.)

There is a nice drive down the hill leading to the bank, so Richie and I drove the truck. I freaked a little at the angle at which the truck tilted on the way down, and hollared that we were going to flip over. I think this annoyed my husband, but he assured me we would not flip, and indeed we remained upright. I then led the expedition, down the steep embankment with my broken toe in my terribly inadequate open-toed croc shoes, which I had to continually empty of sand. We saw not a vulture one. In fact, we saw nothing at all. It was a wilderness entirely devoid of wildlife, with the exception of some minnows. But I took comfort in the sights and smell of the dirt, rocks, water, algae, and hanging, twisted trees – all reminiscent of my childhood home in the woods of West Virginia.

The sun was setting and we headed back up to the truck. In an attempt to avoid the steep angle which had so frightened me, Richie tried to keep to the more level ground. This caused the truck to burrow on one side in the soft, dry dirt, so that now it was at a more alarming angle than ever. Each time Richie hit the accelerator, the truck would slide sideways toward the steep wooded embankment that dropped off into the creek. The low side was my side, and in my mind, we were half upside down already.

Panicked, I opened my door to jump out, an action which drew sharp criticism from Richie – as well as a terrible sense of déjà-vu from my 1st marriage when my ex drove our truck into a ditch on my side and yelled at me when I bailed out the window. I’m not sure where the notion comes from, but apparently I live in a constant state of persuasion that the car I am riding in is about to flip. I shut my door, but continued panicking and opened and shut it two more times before Richie finally realized there was no stopping me. He told me go out his side to keep the weight off my side, so I scrambled over his lap and ended up whacking him hard in the head with my hand. This drew from him an expression I seldom hear, much like the one I staved off when I broke my toe. I froze long enough to apologize with great self-disparagement, then scrambled on out of the truck.

Once outside the truck, I now had a new perspective: my husband was in a truck tilted dangerously on the side of a hill, and it continued its sideways descent each time he stepped on the gas. I could not tolerate this either. I banged on the window and he rolled it down as if he did not know what I was going to say. “You’re going to flip!” I yelled. He got out and appraised the situation, then tried to talk me into placing my weight on the back end of the truck as he tried to drive it out. I obliged, making mental plans to leap if the truck should start flipping. But it was clear within a few more attempts that the truck was irretrievably stuck.

We had to walk all the way back home, most of which is a steep uphill climb. I limped along, wondering how so many of my ideas end up in disaster, and how many more misguided suggestions I could make before my husband stopped listening to me. My dad had learned after only once, when my insistence that we view the Marfa lights from a sealed-off construction site resulted in him falling into a giant hole.

Richie and I decided to call on our friend Ralph, who agreed to help us dislodge the truck. We hadn’t seen Ralph in awhile, so we packed up some beer and headed over for his traditional Friday night get-together. I hobbled to Ralph for one of his bear hugs, and he promptly stepped on my broken toe.

So that’s how my week ended. I have two days to recover, and I will try to keep myself out of trouble and make only the meekest suggestions, if any.

Remembering the Boys

2009-02-28T08:41:00.001-08:00

Borneo Monster?

2009-02-23T03:52:00.000-08:00

This may be a hoax, but it's cool to think about until we find out differently.

http://news.softpedia.com/news/Two-Pictures-Show-the-100-Foot-039-Borneo-Monster-039-104996.shtml

Consensus is it's a hoax. The second photo looks the fakest. Then again, I've never seen a giant snake on the surface of a lake photographed from a helicopter, so I really wouldn't know how it's supposed to look.

A Grimm Misunderstanding

2009-02-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

This is perhaps the most unusual topic I have ever blogged about, but after my experience with my freshman English students on Friday, I felt a story coming on...

Last school year the librarians at the high school where I teach were giving away items from the library. The school had just completed a new library and the librarians wanted to stock the new library with new things. They sent an email of the things they had to give away, and among those things was a bust of the Brothers Grimm. Being a direct descendant of the Grimm brothers, I felt I had first dibs on the bust. I shot an email immediately to the librarians staking my claim (as if anyone else would be beating down their doors), then hurried to collect my treasure. I burst into the library looking around for a lovely, plaster-of-Paris bust such as the ones I've seen of Mozart or of Freud, and then a librarian pointed me in the right direction and ... whoa! There was the ugliest thing I had ever seen: a dark, muddy green-gray bust of the brothers, their two narrow heads squashed against a castle that rose in between, and all this atop a hill of barely recognizable fairy tale characters etched in the side. And as if the muddy conglomeration of figures and faces wasn't ugly enough, parts of the paint had been chipped off, so that the plaster-of-Paris showed through in several stark white spots, including one on the tip of Wilhelm's nose.

I masked my disappointment and, politely thanking the librarians, made off with this piece of crap I had been so worried might get snatched up by someone else. I now abandoned my original plans to place the bust in my home, and decided it would be more suitable in my classroom. I tried a few places, then finally settled for the top of my very tall filing cabinet. You could barely see it up there. Before I left it there, I touched up the white spots with a black marker. The black faded nicely into the plaster-of-Paris so that the spots now blended with the mud color and nobody could tell it had ever been chipped.

After a couple weeks, a teacher down the hall who is from New Orleans brought me some Mardi Gras beads, and these I draped across the bust. If it wasn't an improvement, it certainly looked no worse. One afternoon my friend Karina was visiting in my room, when I noticed her looking up toward my file cabinet. I self-consciously told her how I had acquired the bust and how ugly I knew it was, and she replied in complete sincerity, "Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking how ugly it is."

A year has passed and I haven't given much more thought to the bust. It remains atop the filing cabinet, well above the average eye-level. Friday, the subject of fairy tales came up in my first period class, and I informed my students that I was descended directly from the brothers Grimm. I then pointed to the bust and said, "That's the Grimm brothers, up there." Everyone looked, and one student asked, "Are they all in there?" The question was a puzzling one, but I could only assume she was seeing the fairy tale characters etched on the side of the monstrous hill. So I simply said, "It's a bust of their heads."

The next class was my homeroom class, and one student from my first period English class was present. He seemed bored, as always, sitting glumly with his friends, when suddenly he pointed over my head and and announced, "There are people's ashes in there!" Then he eyed me almost suspiciously. I was at a loss. Where were people's ashes? Was he pointing to the ceiling? Was that possible and where had he heard such a thing? Then it dawned on me that he was pointing to the Grimm brothers bust, and that he had assumed from the get-go that it was an urn. Trying to contain my laughter, I hastened to explain that it was simply a bust, not an urn, and then, in an attempt to cover the fact that I was laughing at his misconception, I joked that I would be rich if I possessed the ashes of the Grimm brothers.

I then realized that the student that had earlier asked "Are they all in there?" had also apparently thought the bust was an urn. And my cousin has since pointed out that her choice of the word "all" shows that the Grimm brothers meant nothing to her, that I might just as well have said, "The Brothers Smith." To her, they are just a family of several brothers whose ashes I have chosen not only to collect but to keep in my classroom.

Now that I think back to that unpleasant moment when I first laid eyes on the bust, to the day I tried to dressing them with Mardi Gras beads, to my friend's candid criticism, and now my students' misunderstanding, I now feel I have indeed acquired a treasure. No attractive, natural plaster-of-Paris bust could possibly have yielded the experiences this one has.

San Antonio Trip

2009-02-08T14:42:00.000-08:00

Comparing my recent camping trip to this weekend's get-away, I am definitely more of a historic-hotel / dinner-at-a-nice-cafe kind of girl. I had a blast every minute of our San Antonio trip. Richie and I were actually there on assignment for the Center for Fortean Zoology (of which I am a rep.) to interview the store manager of Jackalope Joes. But we made sure to book our favorite hotel, the Menger, and take full advantage of the Riverwalk.

Everything I put in my mouth was delectable: quesadillas, a chedder-cheese jalapeno burger with the tastiest bun imaginable, and some Italian dish I could have enjoyed more of if my brother-in-law's Russian girlfriend, who was buying that meal, hadn't force-fed us all with salad and appetizers beforehand. I tried to get out of dessert, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I obligingly took one bite, then Richie, who knows I am trying to watch my weight, offered to have the next bite if Irena would leave me alone. Odd sounding sacrifice, I know, but it truly was such. Between the food, the cocktails, and all other edibles I don't allow myself on a daily basis, I know I have come home at least a couple pounds heavier. I will not weigh myself until I have eaten carefully and worked out for a couple days.

One unexpected let-down this trip was our room at the Menger. The Menger is a lovely, historic and allegedly haunted hotel. We always stay there for, if nothing else, the possibility of some paranormal activity. At the very least, we enjoy the quaint old rooms, the opulent lobby, and the bar with its darkly polished wood and design modeled after the British House of Commons. This was the first time we have ever had a complaint. As soon as we entered our room, I was startled to find there was barely enough space for the king sized bed. Richie said he felt like he was in a cabin on a ship. You could hardly walk between the bed and the TV, and the one chair in the corner had no table. There was no coffee pot (not sure there ever is, but I'll always grumble about that), the bathroom "counter space" was a tiny glass shelf which would hold little more than a tube of toothpaste, and the hot water would scald you in an instant if you weren't careful to have the cold turned almost all the way on. The headboard, which was not connected to the bed, smacked the wall hard if you dared touch it. The only good to come of the room was the repeated tapping noise Richie heard at the chair in the middle of the night, which could indicate the presence of a ghost. I, of course, slept through it, but hearing about it kept my anticipation afloat.

At Irena's request, we took the riverboat ride on Saturday, a tour that takes you around the Riverwalk and explains various historical sites. The guide crammed us all in the boat like sardines until we were squished intimately next to and rubbing knees with perfect strangers. As it turned out, every site the guide pointed out, Richie irritably noted later, was located directly behind us, and we were not -- nor do we we ever wish to be -- among those who have the ability to rotate their heads 180 degrees. It grew tiresome and I quit listening after awhile and just enjoyed the loveliness of the trees, the bridges, and the cafes. I had the sudden thought that the Riverwalk was so perfect it was like a holodeck creation, and then I realized that perhaps Star Trek has warped my perspective of reality.

During one of our mall visits, we tried out some massage chairs -- the kind that roll up and down your back and feel good until they grind into a bone...? Well, we were among many customers trying them and reporting the results. Richie announced twice that his chair massaged the butt, and I finally asked him to quit saying that out loud. But then another customer cheerily replied that her chair had done the same, and I figured maybe I was the only person unwilling to discuss butt massages with strangers. Or perhaps this customer had been conditioned to sudden intimacy by taking the Riverboat tour.

After we agreed with some other customers on the occasional pain these chairs can inflict, one man came along to try one. Within seconds of turning it on, he looked up at his wife and said, "Is is supposed to hurt?" This sent me into laughter. At one point, a lady who had previously tried the chair asked her husband, "Has it grabbed your leg yet?" Richie chimed in sarcastically, "Has it pulled your hair yet?" By now, I was laughing uncontrollably and Richie continued with the satire: "This one just slapped me!" he announced, "A hand just came out and slapped me across the face." I could barely walk as we exited the store, I was laughing so hard at the idea of people spending 2,000 dollars on an abusive chair.

The fun continued into the night as Richie and I went to the bar for our traditional gin and tonic and met and talked forever with a delightful young couple. We talked about everything from God to drinks to rats and could not have enjoyed better company.

Last night we were awakened repeatedly by what sounded like a happy bunch of people in completely thoughtless laughter and shouting just down the hall. Their riotous time continued until we called the front desk. Security must have come because they were quiet soon after. Richie speculated humorously that they could have been ghosts, but your typical haunting does not usually involve a group of ghosts having a loud party.

Overall, it was a wonderful trip. Much better than camping.

My Birthday Camping Trip

2009-01-19T19:42:00.001-08:00

Now that I am back home, I can reflect back on the drama of the past two days with some perspective. Three hours ago, all I could do was stare vacantly into space on the drive home, every now and then flipping down the mirror to gaze in morbid fascination at the red, puffy face staring back at me. But let me start at the beginning…

It was my idea to go camping for my birthday. I wanted to do something different and “get away,” even if only to Belton Lake. The company comprised me, Richie, the dogs, my cousin Matthew, and my brother Bryan who would join us later. Richie went to the store and stocked us with everything from the typical hot dogs and beer to not-so-typical milk, cereal, eggs, and even snack foods from cheetohs to a cheese ball and crackers. We had four huge containers of food and drinks. We even took our lap top, as the campsite had electricity and I envisioned nights of sitting round the campfire watching some good sci-fi under the stars.

And that’s exactly how the first night went: Richie, Matthew and I sat round the campfire with our drinks and watched a Roswell episode. I had a Corona, the guys had Scotch and cigars, and even the dogs got an extra “Beggin Strip.” My allergies were starting to kick up a little (cedar is in bloom) but I had brought Zyrtec and even Afrin, if I got desperate.

Soon after Matthew retired to the tent, the park ranger drove up and ordered us to put out our fire. Apparently, there is a burn ban in effect and the only fire allowed must be off the ground. We had somehow missed the “signs everywhere,” but we apologized and complied, and soon went to bed ourselves.

As soon as we entered the tent, Salem scrambled under the covers with Matthew, the person whom she loves, and I had to dig her out twice before she finally gave up and resigned to sleeping with us. (Matthew isn’t used to sleeping with a small dog and I was afraid he might roll over on her.) I lay there sneezing and blowing my nose for a good spell before finally getting to sleep, then awoke in the middle of the night to feel the hard, bumpy ground beneath me: our air mattress had deflated. We pumped it back up, took the opportunity to let the dogs use the bathroom so we could sleep in.

I took the opportunity to use the bathroom as well. It was dark enough to allow for squatting on the ground, and before I was even halfway through, I heard the distant jingle of a dog tags. I knew, with a sinking heart, that Tiberius had slipped out of the tent. I could hear him running aimlessly around the grounds, and there was nothing I could do at this moment. As soon as I was finished, I somehow managed to round him up in the dark. When I returned to the tent, we couldn’t find Salem. We searched until we finally found she had sneaked back under the covers with Matthew, whom she loves. This time I gave up.

I slept in the next morning while Matthew went to mass and Richie went to teach Sunday school. (I had thought we might all pretend we really were on a far away camping trip, but apparently I was pretending by myself.) Minutes after I emerged with the dogs from the tent, the park ranger drove by, and Salem tore off after his truck. He would have hit her if he hadn’t seen me running up the hill, draped in an army blanket, waving my arms frantically. Tiberius had come along too, of course, and as I awkwardly bent down to pick them both up, still trying to keep my blanket on, the ranger rolled down his window. “They need to be on a leash,” he said gruffly. I hastily apologized and agreed, slinking with self-loathing back to the campsite. I was now one of those irresponsible dog owners whose dog had nearly been killed because of my failure to either train her or confine her. I tied both dogs, with a liberal lead, to a post with their food and water.

Since I could not make a fire, and taking the dogs to the showers would be too much trouble, and my cell phone was nearly dead so I couldn’t call anyone, I decided to read until the guys returned. But my allergies were getting worse, the Texas sun was now beaming mercilessly into my eyes, and I had lost my sunglasses. I thought I should at least make coffee, but after reading the absurdly complicated instructions on the Coleman stove, I abandoned that idea. So now I sat, just feeling sorry for myself. It was my birthday proper, and I was alone, increasingly ill, and the park ranger hated me and my undisciplined dogs.

Having nothing better to do, I decided to go ahead and brave the showers with the dogs. I managed to tie them up at the one end of the long shower, where they were well out of reach of the water. They sat very tensely, pulling their leashes taut, while they waited. Well into the shampooing of my hair, I happened to glance at the floor and found I was not alone: several spiders and a couple other crawling somethings were in there with me, one very close to my feet. While I certainly don’t have a phobia of bugs, I don’t enjoy showering with them. By the time I found a clear spot to stand, I was arched sideways just to keep my head under the stream. I thought of my friends with phobias and felt very brave, like the Crocodile Hunter.

When I returned to the campsite, several crows and two squirrels hurried away from where they had been eating the dog food. Richie returned soon after to find me sneezing and crying and sniffling from now one of the worst onset of allergies I’ve ever had. We walked around the campground and discovered that numerous cedar trees had been cut and shredded, the pieces covering the ground like carpet. We could only assume the pollen had spread far and wide from all that activity.

I knew that I should go home, but I was determined to ignore my body and have a good time. I thought if I just put up with it long enough, my body would adjust. I took another Zyrtec, because obviously the one I had taken earlier that morning hadn’t worked. Well, this second one succeeded in stopping me up so completely that there was not even room left in my ears to allow me to swallow. Since we had no Liquid Plumber, I used Afrin. That worked for about six hours, and I had to use it again at dinner. By this time the congestion was moving into my chest. My face was swelling from inflamed sinuses and turning red with irritation from my constant tears and nose blowing. I was starting to itch on the outside of my throat, and my jaw line. It was like my body was running out of allergy symptoms to display and was making up new ones.

By now I was staying at the campsite only because I had no energy to pack up and go home. I thought it could not possibly get worse. Besides, our friends Paul and Jillian and their kids had joined us and brought pizza! And I thought between a good social time and maybe enough beer, I wouldn’t notice how I felt. Plus, my brother had brought his fire bowl on a stand, so we now had a legal fire going. We had a good evening, but I remained ever aware of my physical condition. (Paul, who is a pharmacist, could only stare in shocked silence when I told him of my Zyrtec/Afrin cycle. He, however, later left the campsite in an allergy fit as well.)

Between our (again) deflated mattress and being entirely unable to breathe (I refused to abuse the Afrin again), I barely slept that night. I lay listening to the raccoons rifle through our things. The previous night, they had enjoyed the Pistachios and Trail Mix we had forgotten to put away. This night, I would later discover, they or something else would climb the pole of the shelter to the hanging tote bag and tear open the zip-loc bag of dog food.

By the next morning, I was forced to hold a tissue to my nose while I tried to help pack up for home. My tongue even burned. I don’t know if I had burnt it the day before with coffee or pizza, but whatever the case it greatly compounded my misery.

Within minutes of being in the truck, my symptoms began to subside. We stopped at Walmart so I could get some 120 mg Sudafed to counter the effects of the overlapping Zyrtec (what’s one more medicine?), and then we went home.

Since then, I have soaked in a hot tub while listening to Vivaldi, and now I am in my study sipping hot tea. I am still swollen and dazed, but I am recovering. I am not saying I will never camp again, but it will probably be in my living room.

Review of Whitley Strieber's Communion

2009-01-13T15:49:00.000-08:00

I have always shied away from this book, largely, I think, due to my very Orthodox Christian background. I always knew it was an in-depth account of alien visitation that might confuse me a little, challenge some dearly-held beliefs. (Not that it isn’t healthy for a faith to be challenged.) But as unexplained phenomena is one of my passions, and I had slowly, through other media, been broken into the world of abduction stories with my faith still intact, I finally read it. Besides, I have long had the impression that Communion is canon for any UFO enthusiast – much like Enders Game or Dune might be for a Sci-fi fan – and I didn’t want to be caught not having read it.

Communion is the story of Whitley Strieber’s experiences as a possible abductee of otherworldly visitors. I say “possible” because he never boldly answers the question of what his experiences are; he only believes they are real, whatever they are. His experiences are bizarre, to say the least. From childhood to present, they are spattered with seemingly unrelated images: a skeleton on a motorcyle, small figures in blue jumpsuits, a blurry “white thing.” Likewise, the sum of his experiences resists any theme or cohesive pattern: missing time, a exploding seltzer bottle, a mysterious voice in the speakers, and abductions resulting in everything from a cut on the finger to unexplained implants.

Strieber first suspected that he had been a recipient of some strange activity in 1985, but hypnosis regression therapy suggested prior anomalous events. As he explored his memories – both conscious and unconscious – he began to piece together a pattern of strange experiences starting as early as age two. His stories would evoke incredulity at best if certain elements were not corroborated by credible witnesses, medical proof, and similar stories from experiencers ignorant of Strieber’s own. Just a few reoccurring reports among experiencers include some type of implant, sexual procedures, disappearing pregnancy, and the ability to affect electronic equipment. The reported entities look the same as well, with the now familiar large, black eyes and nearly non-existent mouth.

Because Strieber recounts his experiences in the order that he remembered them in his regression therapy (or otherwise), and due to regressions that unpredictably interrupted other regressions, any sense of chronology becomes extremely convoluted, walking the reader along Strieber’s own mental labyrinth. To get a better sense of the timeline of Strieber’s experiences, I have logged the events by order of occurrence. (See below.)

In his theorizing about the exact nature of these entities -- during which he charges down long paths of speculation about ancient mythological figures and religious conventions – Strieber takes broad leaps, and I found myself wishing for more narrative and less conjecture. He seems to lean toward a positive view of the entities, but relays no experience to justify this feeling. He admittedly feels a certain affinity for the consistent female visitor, but the terror and sense of invasion which accompanies most of his experiences overshadows anything positive for the reader.

As for reading this from the perspective of an Orthodox Christian, I can see how one might conclude the entities are demonic. However, regardless of what they are, I read this book with the respect I would give anyone who wanted me to hear him out. I was moved more than once to empathy and compassion. I did not approach the book with any preconceived notions about what he experienced or about his motives. I was disappointed to read, in the new preface, how Strieber was treated with such contempt by “the religious right and the intellectual left.” I believe it take guts for a man like Strieber, an intellectual and professional, to write such a book. He presents his case with the vulnerability of a child, and one would be remiss to exploit that trust by ridiculing or condemning him.

I am glad I read this book. If nothing else, it gave me insight into the very real trauma of one who has encountered something inconceivable and unacceptable to much of society. By default, such a person – who needs more than anything to be heard – is alienated. Books like Communion help overcome that alienation, if only for the moment that we are listening.

Timeline of Whitley Strieber’s Experiences

1947 – age two – at Grandmother’s: memory of “a terrifying, round object” in the sky and “a crowd of big, gray monkeys” breasting the hill.

[1954] -age 9 - sleeping outside with a boyhood friend. Some noise wakes them up and they explore around the yard in the dark for awhile, then they hear someone approaching and they run. He runs right behind his friend, but then finds his friend fast asleep as if he’d never been awake. Same friend also saw, with Whitley, a “huge object” in sky one night along with a black car with no lights on that raced by.

July 1957 – age 12 – train trip from Madison, Wisconsin to see aunt and uncle: on the Texas Eagle from Chicago to San Antonio. During trip he becomes violently ill. Someone shoves a bladder thing down his throat. A “nurse” puts a drop on his tongue to keep him from throwing it up. Father is crouched, looking in agony. Later remembers soldiers in fatigues lying unconscious in craft. He is excited, then sees father (who is standing by his sister) look at something in terror and he himself becomes terrified. He tells his father it is alright and his father says not it is not alright.

1958: announces to friend that he has built an anti-gravity machine under the tutelage of “spacemen.” Friend recounts that when Whitley plugged it in, “there was a great buzzing, the electromagnet in the core of the thing whirled madly, and the lights in the house began to pulsate.” Lots of noise, sparks, house lights go haywire and some burn out… He pulls plug. Parents exclaimed in alarm initially, but he never told them what had caused it.

1967 – college age - Austin: Has just moved to Austin from San Antonio. He experiences, over a period of twenty four hours, several consecutive chunks of missing time. Weeks later, visits grandmother in San Antonio, is lying in bed reading Time, then suddenly transported back in time to a few weeks earlier. He hurries into his car and tries to drive away, but a demonic face peers in the window and speaks to him in a high squeaky voice. He tells entity that they cannot leave the car in the street. Keeps trying to drive away, but has an overpowering urge to go back into his apartment. (In real life, is lying in bed at grandmother’s during flashback, fighting the urge to get out of bed and rush outside.) Comes to as if from a nightmare and is still at Grandmother’s. (Afterward this incident, becomes obsessed with getting out of Texas and out of the U.S. This started his lifelong “running.” Desires a big city with lots of people and lights.)

Jan, 1968: Moves to London to attend London School of Film. One night, goes to sleep at a friend’s flat and, after a blurry memory of what he has always called a “raid” during which he crossed rooftops (looking down into chimneys), he wakes up in his own flat with no idea of how he got there. (He never says if his flat was able to be reached from his friend’s flats via rooftops.) The next day, he desires to leave England for another continent. He goes to Italy, and meets a woman on the train. Then his memory gets fuzzy and he recalls going to Rome, hitting Florence on the way, and has always reported that he stayed in Florence for six weeks. (However, when he went to Florence in 1984, he realized he had never been there. ) He left the female friend in Rome, hopping from city to city, eventually going broke and remembers “nights of terror,” being afraid to turn out the light and wanting to keep the door and window locked. He sought comfort in large crowds. He lost weeks of time. He remembers a “noisy, smelly airplane with someone who called himself a coach, and something about taking a course at an ancient university.” He saw “little adobe huts,” and mentioned to someone how simple they were. He returned to London “weeks later than..planned” and his aggravated landlord, having not heard from him nor received any rent, had rented out his apartment, packing all his things up and putting them in the basement. He had originally told his landlord he would only be gone two weeks. He “simply accepted all this” and stayed with a friend until he found his own place.

1972 or 73: He and wife in San Antonio visiting his family, sleeping in sister’s old bedroom on second floor. In middle of night, suddenly awakens and feels he had heard a loud noise, leaves to get a glass of water, smells something like smoldering cardboard. On way to bathroom, sees a small, dark figure w/ a red light in it hand burst out of his old bedroom and run down the stairs. Despite its very short stature, he dismisses it as a family member.

April 1977: he and wife are sitting in LR listening to the stereo, when right after a record is finished playing, a voice begins speaking to them through the speakers. It holds a conversation with them. He can only remember the last words “I know something else about you.” They report the experience to Federal Comunications Commission. A man explains that what he reported was impossible, as they had no microphone nor cassette deck. He and Anne move.

June 1978: Something “terrible” occurs in the middle of the night but the memory is of nothing more than a “phone call followed by a menacing visit” and “a series of menacing phone calls.” The police are called and they check the premises but find nothing. He and Anne move again.

Early 1979: He is awakened by the “bizarre impression” that people are “pouring into the house through the windows.” Some nights later they hear screams. He and Anne call the cops but they cops never show. They move again.

Jan 1980: sees strange streak of light in sky, son wakes up screaming as if from a nightmare, then a small, dark figure rushes out onto their balcony, then there is an explosion in the pantry, which was a seltzer bottle. “the glass was reduced to beads, to dust” with no “trace of the water that had been inside.” They move again the next January.

About a year after they have moved (which would make it two years from the Jan 1980 incident), Anne wakes up hollering that she has been “poked in the stomach” by a white thing. This thing strikes him on the arm the next night and a few nights later his son reports that “a little white thing” poked him repeatedly. The following Sunday the babysitter calls them reporting a “child in a white sheet” has startled her by peaking into the kitchen from the fire escape. He and Anne move again, this time to the Upper West Side.

March 1983: he goes outside for a breath of fresh air and ends up losing 3 hours.

Oct. 4th, 1985 – “explosion” in house; Jacque Sandulescu sees light and Annie Gottlieb hears explosion and hears little feet scurrying. A small hooded being enters Whitley’s rooms and touches his head with a silver wand, making images appears in his head. He sees his father dying and mother just looking on, an image of the world blowing up…

Dec. 26th 1985 – taken from bed naked into woods, then up into craft, probed, finger cut, he asks to smell entities. Entities in blue coveralls.

Feb. 7, 1986 – he is frantic, can feel entities’ presence, he and his wife could smell them (smoldering cardboard, cheese, cinnamon). Loses four hours of time, finds self naked. Next morning, finds two little triangles inscribed on left forearm. Remembers that the odors he and his wife had smelled night before were odors he had smelled in 1972 or 1973.

March 1, 1986 – First hypnosis - w/ Dr. Klein. Regresses to Oct. 4 incident.

March 5, 1986 – second hypnosis – w/ Dr. Klein – Regresses to Dec. 26th incident. (During this session, he regresses to being abducted with father and sister from train at age 12.)

March 10, 1986 – hypnosis with Dr. Klein – they explore incident that took place in Oct. or Nov. of 1984: W. encounters two entities in a fogbank while driving his truck on the highway. He sees a white truck with a black windshield. Finds himself in a “long, gray room.” He is sitting on floor, dressed, being watched by someone with “big, black eyes.” Sees this female being who shows him pictures in his mind that calm him. Pics are of triangles, circles, etc.

March 11, 1986: begins to see female being – the one that has continually visited him – in his mind’s eye. So clear it is living. It moves so he can see whatever part of it he needs to describe when he discusses it with Hopkins and Klein later.

March. 14, 1986 – hypnosis - regresses to night at grandmother’s house in 1967 when he had been lying in bed: suddenly there is an entity there that slaps him in the side of the head with a ‘big, flat-headed silver nail.” He changes “into something else…heavy and big.” He is scared to death. Entity has a face like a giant fly. He walks out of room, then is suddenly back in the bed again looking at the same page of his magazine. During this hypnosis session, he regresses to age 12 incident: he and sister see a fireball, then he sees a “skeleton” like being that grabs his shoulders. He is terrified, then finds himself calm on the grass, while the being works something into his hair. They go inside and report fireball to parents. He then regresses – at doctor’s suggestion to Jan. 1980, age 36: sees a meteor, then there are six figures at bedside and they get closer every time he closes his eyes. He can’t wake up Anne, and the dog won’t wake up. Andrew screams and when they run to him, his diaper is pulled down around his knees. They discover the Seltzer explosion. W. returns to description of beings around the bed: “dark blue uniforms…gray [skin]……mushroomy-gray. Smell funny, too…Two big round eyes and a round mouth…” and possibly no noses.

UFO

2008-12-30T10:24:00.000-08:00

Ok, I have one measly UFO story that took place in none other than Parker City, Indiana, the capital of my negative, paranormal experiences. This experience was not negative, and it probably wasn't even paranormal. However, the object my mom and I saw is as yet unidentified, and I have yet to hear a similar description in any known aircraft sighting OR any UFO sighting.

We saw it over the tree in our front yard one night. It was silent, not too terribly high up (I can't judge distance specifically), and appeared to be floating somewhat aimlessly. It was a glowing square. To this day, my mom describes it as looking like a paper bag with a candle in it. But the paper bag imagery throws me off because there was nothing thin or papery looking about. It was definitely square, but solid, and had a light source inside it. We got in the car and followed it down the highway until it disappeared. As it grew more distant, all that was visible was its light, so that now it looked like nothing but a glowing ball in the sky.

That was all. I suspect it was something man-made that was unidentifiable to the untrained eye.

Missing Memory

2008-12-30T10:07:00.000-08:00

This is kind of an embarrassing story, and probably nothing more than a memory retrieval issue, but it was just so odd I want to include it in my paranormal accounts.

This took place in my early twenties when I was working at a day care. It was right after naptime, and I was sent to retrieve 2 children from the naproom and deliver them to a classroom downstairs. I went to the naproom, helped the kids get their shoes on, then left the naproom with them following.

Suddenly I was in the ladies' bathroom downstairs, washing my hands. I thought to myself, "Wait, where are the kids? What did I do with them while going to the bathroom? Did I have them wait for me in the hall?" In a panic, I rushed into the hallway. There were no children.

I hurried to the classroom where I was originally supposed to have delivered them, and there they were, safe and sound. Their teacher saw me approach, and I asked her, "Did I bring them here?"

"Yes," she said.

I stared her a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. "Did I say anything?" I asked.

She looked concerned. "Well, you just looked kind of spaced out."

There was nothing more to be said. I don't recall now if I admitted to her that I had no recollection of my actions. I tried from that moment on to reconstruct my steps from the upstairs naproom to the downstairs woman's bathroom, but was never able to remember the steps inbetween.

A psychologist friend of mine once told me that he didn't think I had actually disassociated during the time in question, because I had carried out my duties. I had to have been aware of what I was doing to do so. He thinks I had a memory retrieval problem. Whatever it was, it was very odd and I'm glad to say it hasn't been repeated since (that I remember - lol).

Many people over the years have compared this story to the common experience of driving somewhere and having no recollection of the drive upon arrival. I think that is something entirely different. Most of us go on "autopilot" when we drive, and have the luxury of thinking of other things, daydreaming, listening to music, etc. But to have just 2-3 minutes of blank when you are at work carrying out a specific errand -- with children involved, no less -- that, in my opnion, cannot be compared to the all too common driving experience.

Pointless Psychic Moments

2008-12-29T17:35:00.001-08:00

I say pointless because when most people have premonitions, they are meaningful in some way or other. They convey important messages or warnings. My friend Jamie, who is a fellow lover of all things unexplained, has twice been the subject of my three very pointless, recent psychic moments.

First story: This was last summer. I was getting ready to go walk with Jamie. I've always thought Jamie is pretty cool and I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm always worried I'll make an ass of myself somehow and she'll think I'm not cool. That's the only explanation I have for this sudden scenario that flashed through my head of my accidentally driving my truck into Jamie's garage door, busting it to smithereens, and forever ruining our friendship. Well, minutes after this heart-stopping scenario rushed through my mind, my phone rang. It was Jamie. She was upset because her garage door had just broken and she couldn't get it closed. She was going to have to cancel our walk because she didn't want to leave the house with the door wide open.

Second Story: Last spring, I had a dream one night that Jamie bought a flux capacitor. That's the device that enabled Marty McFly to travel back in time in Back to the Future. I woke up amused and emailed Jamie about my dream. She emailed me flipping out: the very night before, while at the school play rehearsal, Jamie had joked with some of the students that the rehearsal was going too slow and they needed to buy a flux capacitor. I had no way of knowing about that, as I wasn't at the rehearsal. Furthermore, neither Jamie nor I have ever discussed a flux capacitor nor, to our recollection, even mentioned the device since the movie was in theaters.

Third story: This past fall, I dreamed that Jamie had a whole room in her house of nothing but church pews. In another room, she had so many easy chairs that it looked like a furniture store. There was also some sort of party going on at her house with sand -- a beach theme or something. The next day I (amused, of course) told her of my dream. She kind of rolled her eyes and mentioned all the family she had had to take in the night before due to the hurricane. She had put up more people than her house can hold. I found it interesting that I had dreamed she had had so many seats in her house (when only she, her husband, and her baby live there), unaware that she had actually had to take in about enough people to fill those seats!

So that's the extent of my recent psychic experiences. Pretty benign.

Housesitting Haunting

2008-12-29T17:14:00.000-08:00

This happened in Huntington, WV when I was 26. I lived for a brief time by myself in my Uncle Gavin's house, a lovely, contemporary, 2-level home. My uncle's neighbor Michael asked me to housesit for him for one week while he vacationed in Florida. He paid me 200 dollars up front to sleep over there and to keep his 37 plants watered. (I counted.)

Michael's house was larger and old, as are many of the houses in Huntington. I was a little spooked at having to enter through the backway only every night, as it required climbing up the deck stairs first. That's why it greatly disappointed me when the deck light burnt out the first night I stayed there. But I'm a big girl and I just resigned myself to entering in the dark. I was annoyed either that day or the next when the light over the kitchen sink also burnt out, but old house wiring sucks like that sometimes.

The next evening, I came home and had just gotten seated in the living room, which faces the kitchen, when I noticed a kitchen cabinet was wide open. I didn't use the kitchen, at least not that part of it. I only used the kitchen for the same reason I use any kitchen -- to make coffee. And that cabinet was nowhere near the coffee. I knew that cabinet had been shut earlier. I shut the cabinet and tested to see how firmly it stayed shut. Very firmly. It was not the type to swing open for any reason, and if it wasn't latched, it would not appear shut at all. But OK, whatever, there must be some explanation.

The next evening, I came home to find the cabinet at the hutch at the top of the stairs was wide open. Again, this cabinet had been closed previously. I shut it, of course, and was wondering what was going on.

That night, I was pretty spooked, so I decided to sleep in the living room instead of the bedroom. (Not sure why this felt safer, other than the fact that it was closer to the exit.) I turned the overhead living room light on and dimmed it so that I could sleep, but would still have light. I went to sleep and awoke 45 or so minutes later. When I opened my eyes, the light was completely out. The room was dark. I lay there frozen in fear (not paranormally-induced paralysis, but just plain "I'm too freaking scared to move" fear) for maybe 20 minutes. Finally, I forced myself off the couch and over to the dimmer switch. I turned the switch, and the light came back on. It had simply been turned down.

I wasn't such a big girl that night. I went home and slept. I persuaded a friend to stay over for the remainder of my time there, and there were no more strange occurrences. When Michael got home from vacation, I told him of the strange activity and he said that nothing like that had ever happened to him there -- no opening cabinets or lights being turned down. All I can assume is that the ghost or whatever did not like me there.

An accidental invocation

2008-12-29T17:02:00.000-08:00

Yet another dark story from the dark little town of Parker City, Indiana. I was about 16. My best friend Lana, at that time 19, had seen a light in her parent's room one night. It was a supernatural light that occasionally appeared when she needed comfort. Her parents room, oddly enough, had no windows, and this light appeared to Lana in the dark. My friend Toby and I showed up for an impromptu visit, and Lana excitedly told us this light had appeared. We decided we would try to get it reappear, and that the best way to do this would be to hold a little sort of worship service and create a holy atmosphere. So we all three gathered in the bedroom, shutting the door and turning off all the lights so that we were in complete and utter blackness. That way, if and when the light appeared, we would know for sure that's what it was.

We began singing hymns and praying, earnestly endeavoring to draw this light back. It never showed up, but at one point I saw the most interesting thing: this black figure (amazingly enough black on black, since the room was already black) with wings right in front of me. I saw the wings slowly dip down and rise again, and I saw a head with sort of a ... maybe a gargoyle type snout turn to the side. I honestly thought it was imagination, and I said nothing. I wasn't even scared because Toby and Lana were right there with me. We were all huddled on the bed. Finally, we all got bored and quit the service. We decided to go somewhere (out to eat or something) and as we exited the doorway, either Toby or Lana suddenly said, "Did anybody see like a black winged creature..?" And the two of us exclaimed yes, we had, and then somebody else (not me) said, "Did it have like a long, beak-like snout?" We all agreed that is what it had looked like. So, apparently, what I had seen was real. And that is how I learned not to try summoning things, because you don't know what will show up.

Dog alerts me to some unseen evil

2008-12-29T13:30:00.000-08:00

This took place in Parker City, Indiana, but not in the spooky house. My parents were out of town for a couple nights, and I was sleeping in their room with the family dog, Caity. (There wasn't room for her in my twin bed.) In the middle of the night, Caity woke me up barking and snarling ferociously, as she would always do -- much to our mortification -- when visiters would come. She was going ballistic, as usual, and at first I thought she had heard someone in the house, at the door or something. But then I realized she was standing by the bed, looking up into the air over my parents' chest of drawers. I knew instantly, innately, there was something dark there. I lay there in fear, unable to even pray. To pray would be to acknowledge there was something to pray about, and I refused to acknowledge that there really was something in the room. I ordered Caity to get back in bed and be quiet. She reluctantly complied, but was still furiously growling. She continued this until I finally worked up the nerve to say, "Plead the blood." (Pleading the blood -- calling on the power of the blood of Christ.) The minute I said it, Caity went dead silent. Her whole demeanor became peaceful. She then began looking, calmly, from the foot of the bed to the side of the bed, back and forth, back and forth, and I knew angels had come to my defense. I was, however, still too scared and still somewhat in denial. I wanted nothing in the room, not demons, not angels, nothing but me and Caity. I kept pushing her head down, but she would always lift it back up and continue staring peacefully from the edge to the foot of the bed. I lay uncomfortably for probably 30 minutes before I was able to fall back to sleep. That was the only negative experience I had in that house.

Invisible Hand

2008-12-29T13:17:00.000-08:00

This took place in Cincinatti, Ohio at a Waiting upon God, a sort of three day church fest that the church organization I was involved in held about once a year. Again, I was around 14, and I was eating lunch with my best friend, my boyfriend, and my boyfriend's sister. We were sitting at a booth, and I was on the edge with my boyfriend to my left. My best friend and my boyfriend's sister were across from us. As I took a bite of soup, I felt a finger rest heavily on my shoulder. Assuming it was my boyfriend, I simply tried to shrug it off so I could eat in peace. It wouldn't budge and I continued shrugging in annoyance, only to look up and find everyone staring at me. It was then I saw that my boyfriend wasn't touching me. I slowly turned to see what was on my shoulder, and just as I established there was nothing there, an electrical surge shot into my shoulder, jolting me. I lurched forward with the impact. (Of course, by now I was really getting some odd stares.) I never knew what it was. I confided the experience to one of the more deeply spiritual ministers at the gathering, and he prayed for a few minutes, then said that God's hand had been on me and wanted me to do His will.

A similar but less poignant experience took place a year later when I was living in West Virginia with my godmother. I was rearranging my bedroom -- as I did about every two weeks -- and I stepped back into a corner to assess my work. As I did, something draped over the top of my head. It felt like a web or sheet of some sort. In a panic, I reached up to feel for what it was, and there was nothing. I looked for signs of a spider web or anything, but never found anything at all.

Evil, unseen presence

2008-12-29T12:55:00.000-08:00

I am long overdue to journal the paranormal experiences I have had, and as few as they are, it's really not a tall order.

I want to start with the most terrifying experience, as it has always stood out among the other memories. I was 14, and we had just rented a house in Parker City, Indiana. (Incidentally, Parker City was darkest feeling place I've ever lived and all my negative paranormal experiences took place there.) There was something wrong with this house; I was always scared. At the time, however, I didn't have the knowledge to pray over or bless the house.

One night I had just gotten in bed, and lay awake waiting for sleep to come. Unlike some people, it has always taken me a good 20 minutes to go to sleep and I have never been able to drop off without realizing it. So I was wide awake and suddenly I became afraid. Although I couldn't see it, I felt there was something at the foot of my bed. As I considered this, my fear grew to an unprecedented level, growing still until it felt like something physical that enveloped me and coursed through me. I became literally paralyzed -- not "too scared to move," but literally physically, paralyzed -- and I felt completely weightless. My memory is that my vision went dark or entered some fuzziness; I could see nothing. All I know for sure is that I was in some other state in which it seemed sheer horror had manifested itself as an entity that physically possessed me. After what was probably a few seconds of this feeling, in which I lay in a state of terror and paralysis, the feeling left. I felt my weight again, I could move again, and I bolted out of my room. I crashed in my parent's room for the rest of night.

In discussing these things with my parents, I learned that they too had felt uneasy in the house. A couple that had visited one week reported something bumping against the bed in the night. We never knew what was wrong with the house, and fortunately, we did not stay there long.

Tarantula

2008-10-17T23:34:00.000-07:00

This tarantula paid us a visit one evening on the back porch. He walked right up to Richie, then hid under the umbrella for a short nap, or meditation, or whatever he was doing. I was so excited to see a real tarantula that I took pictures. (Growing up in the east, you only see tarantulas in display cases at fairs and things.)

Japanese Beetle

2008-10-17T23:30:00.000-07:00

This pretty little guy was on the porch on his back, and by all appearances dead (curled legs). I touched him and his legs uncurled, but he needed help turning over. I could tell he had been there for a long time and would probably have died soon if I hadn't found him. I turned him over and gave him some water, and he drank and drank, and finally left.

Gone too soon

2008-09-07T14:42:00.000-07:00

This beautiful vulture showed up on our back porch last Saturday. It had an injured wing, and I called everyone I knew for help, including the game warden, who turned out to be out of town. Fortunately, my priest, an expert falconer, was willing to come help. He said to feed the bird some raw meat, and try to capture it. We were unable to capture it, but it enjoyed the raw chicken I gave it, and drank more water than I thought its stomach could possibly have held. My priest finally came and easily caught it, even avoiding the vomit the bird spewed in defense -- twice! He took it to Last Chance Forever, an organization in San Antonio that rescues and rehabilitates birds of prey. A few days later, I called to check on the bird's status, and it turns out he had had to be put down. The vet said there was too much dead bone and it had protruded through the skin. Federal law requires that if you cannot return it to the wild, it must be put down. They said it was an old injury, and the bird had been going hungry for awhile as it had insects in its belly. I just felt sick. I wished I hadn't called anyone, but continued to feed and water it for the rest of its life. However, my husband said it might have died from gangrene, and so I'm glad we saved it from a slow death. I was also comforted that it had eaten a lot of rabbit the night before my priest had taken it to LCF. The bitterness of not being able to save the vulture was softened by the knowledge that it knew mercy and a good meal before it went to God.

Digger

2008-08-17T13:28:00.000-07:00

While driving to town recently, I saw this delightful sight out my window. I hope the driver wouldn't mind, but it brought a smile to my face and I sneaked a picture at the stoplight. Digger sat up for the occasion, but preferred to lie low when moving at normal speed.

Charleston

2008-08-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

I was just looking out at the cement plant across the field from our beautiful view, and noticing how lovely it glows in the darkness. It is white with a light on top and the area around it is illuminated. And it is set so prettily in its green field among the trees it made me think of my month in Charleston -- that cluster of mountains and steel buildings, bridges and lights, all set on the river, co-existing like radically different siblings that somehow all fit in the family. I remember driving the interstate every morning as the early morning fog was still rising from the valleys, and the sun was peeking over the hills. It was so beautiful. I had my coffee and would listen to U2s "Arms Around the World."

I remember visiting the riverside a few times, a beauty I didn't fully appreciate until I moved to Huntington where they had walled off the river. I remember, of course, excursions to Taylor books downtown, one of the many crowded shops set on cobblestone, where Nathan and I would sit over tea or wine amid the books and clustered mismatched couches and chairs.

I remember working at the capitol building with Frances and the other girls in the Vital Statistics office. Brenda is the only other name I remember. But there was the serious, spiritual black lady, and the smoker, who always liked to me to go out with her while she smoked. Frances and I hit it off with everyone so well that when our one month as temps was up, they all threw us a going-away party. Good grief. We photo-copied our faces on the Xerox machine and exchanged addresses. And I, regretfully, lost hers and have never been able to find her since.

It's funny how the best memories, like this one, are often of a time when I wasn't really being productive, I wasn't working on a long-term goal. I was working a mindless, low-paying job and simply trying to stretch the time as thin as possible before I returned to Kentucky. I never suspected that brief month would be one I would look back on so fondly. I just wish I had savored Charleston a little more, because it would be years after I left that I would look back and realize how beautiful it all was.

Click Beetle

2008-08-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

This little guy was crawling on my back porch this morning. He is a "click beetle", a beetle that makes a loud clicking noise by snapping its back. I researched click bugs and found that he is unusually large. The post-it note in the second pic is a standard sized post-it. So this bug was just a little shorter than my index finger.

Lit. Reviews from Amazon

2008-05-04T07:15:00.000-07:00

pop fiction reviews

My faith

2008-05-04T06:01:00.000-07:00

Because I have chosen to tackle some controversial and theological issues, and because I have approached each one from a Biblical perspective, I now want to address the issue of my faith itself. I realize that many people might find it terribly simple-minded to start with a premise of faith and draw my conclusions from that, rather than approaching everything objectively and "intellectually." Well, I will first state that I find a godless perspective no more intellectual than a God-centered perspective. But that's another blog, for a day when I feel like delving into it. Suffice it to say that I have given much thought to deep issues since I was a child. My earliest memory of struggling with unanswerable questions goes back to the dinner table when I asked my dad where the evil within Satan came from if God, being entirely good, had created him. Dad explained that anything contrary to God was evil, and I asked why, etc.

It has been the experience of my heart -- as much or more than my mind -- that has "answered" some of these questions for me. I have felt the love and presence of God -- most strongly, in fact, right after my agnostic phase -- and realized He is utterly, inexplicably loving and perfect, and it makes perfect sense now how anything in opposition to Him is evil. He is not a bully, he is just love and law, and havoc and judgement are a natural result of opposing him, and they are what necessitated Christ. That almost makes God sound helpless against his own power...but again, there is another elusive issue.

It is to my agnostic phase that I wish to point: I have been through, and continue to go through, those tough questions, that ones that have no real answer, the ones which drive people away from faith to atheism or agnosticism. As with other schools of thought I do not adhere to, I completely understand how people do. I completely understand the tendency to swear off faith, to scoff at the seemingly non-intellectual faith-based mentality.

Bottom line: I have chosen faith, but not after weighing the evidence for and against it, and experiencing, for a time, life without it. I have many stories, incredible stories of miracles, spiritual manifestations, all those "signs and wonders" that I could use as evidence of God, but in the end, it's always a choice. We humans have the uncanny ability -- even tendency -- to split our head open on a rock and still deny the rock's existence. So my stories really don't matter. Faith is a choice and that is what I have chosen.

Ghosts

2008-05-03T19:31:00.001-07:00

I believe in them. I hesitate to talk to many Christians about them because so many Christians dismiss them as demonic. However, there is no Biblical basis (that I know of) for that theory. Here is a passage from Luke 24: “While they were still talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.’ When he had said this, he showed them his hands and feet.” Scott Maruna, who wrote the article found on the link below, makes such an excellent argument for ghosts from a Christian perspective that I cannot add much more to it. http://www.occult.be/modules.php?name=News&file=print&sid=30 (Link is now dead -- sorry.) One thing he points out is that Jesus would not "waste words" talking about what a ghost does or does not have if they didn't exist. It would be like telling a kid not to worry because "the boogieman does not have sharp claws."

Ghosts do not have to be incompatible with Heaven and Hell. We know so little of what happens in the afterlife, especially immediately after death. And it is likely different for different people. Regardless even of my spiritual beliefs, the evidence for ghosts cannot all be explained away as hallucinations OR demonic activity. I believe the spirit world is every bit as complex as this world, and to give any one phenomenon a blanket answer is to assert a knowledge that a being of this world cannot possess.

Rumors and Hate

2008-04-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

I found out this week that news reporters will report any story told to them, will report it as truth, and the American public will instantly react with entirely unfounded hatred. The school I teach at and my school principal has been attacked this week for an incident inaccurately reported -- that is, with vital information omitted -- and unable to be clarified due to the school's legal obligation to keep silent on student matters. I am astounded at the hatred coming from people who don't even know the first thing about our school and our principal, and who don't even know the real story. The bias of the news report is disheartening, the reaction of the public is staggering, and it is infuriating to know the real story and be unable to say anything while hate pours through our email, phone lines, fax machines, and even Internet blogs and public forums. There have even been threats. It has made me realize how dangerous a thing judgementalism is, especially the kind based purely one one person's word.

I have been guilty of believing rumors, but this situation has shown me the consequences of such gullibility. May God keep me from ever treating people, from ever speaking of people, as the public has of my principal because they choose to believe whatever they hear.

Man and Beast

2008-04-05T07:39:00.001-07:00

This morning after praying a long time for my rat Art Bell -- who temporarily went into minor respiratory distress -- I went to sleep focusing on the belief that God would take care of him. One of my biggest challenges is "letting go" and believing that God will answer prayer, which, in this case, was to take care of Art Bell so I could sleep. It's a very good practice in faith and in not being a control freak.

When I awoke, I checked him to find he was better, then I went to have devotions. I have been reading a Psalm a day lately, and as I picked up my BCP, I wondered if the Psalm I was on today might encourage me with the current situation. Well, there was a verse that said "You save both man and beast." I was struck by how out of the blue the verse was, too. Most of the Psalm is about defeating enemies. Anyway, I am thankful for how God spoke to me, how he has been close to me in my struggles. I am thankful FOR the struggles. When I actually do the right thing and pray about them, it always draws me closer to God than I was before. I have been in daily contact with God since my trip to NM, when I thought all week I was losing Art Bell. In the end, it's not so much about losing or not losing Art Bell. It's about sticking close to God -- whatever situation he uses to remind me of that.

Another struggle I'm now thankful for was last week: I had a terrible conference with a parent who would not believe me when I said her son was disrespectful. I don't even want to go into that, but it was the type of conference that I could have really obsessed over for awhile. And I did, the following evening. But I prayed repeatedly that God would give me peace of mind over it, and I tried (repeatedly) to give it to Him. In the past, when I've difficulty with students, I have prayed twice for God to vindicate me (that's rare, but there is a time for it) and in both cases, the results were amazing. This time, though, I didn't feel led to pray that way, but I felt led to pray for my peace of mind. I wanted the parents to see it my way, of course, but that wasn't what I was to emphasize. So, like I said, I prayed for peace of mind. The very next day, I realized halfway through the day that the situation hadn't bothered me once. It felt like it had taken place a month ago instead of the day before. That is SO unusual for me, and I knew it was an answer to prayer. And maybe the best on yet, since it helped me grow in an area I'm so often deficient.

A mixed bag

2008-03-20T11:08:00.000-07:00

I am finally to the point where I can write. It has been one of the worst weeks with some of the best moments. It started two weeks ago when Richie and I cancelled plans for New Orleans and decided to come to New Mexico instead. He was scheduled to be here anyway for a couple days on TDY (temporary duty – military for ‘business trip’) and I had reconnected via the Net with an old high school friend who happens to live here. Also, we felt freer to bring Art Bell here than to New Orleans, and as he is so high maintenance in his old age, I felt better having him with me than leaving him with a friend. Lastly, I had never felt “clear” on the New Orleans trip, and it felt more right to come here. I was, therefore, unpleasantly surprised at the battles we were in for.
The small, annoying stuff started as soon as we reached our first hotel. At first glance, it was awesome: full kitchen, awesome lobby with a fireplace and delicious breakfast and coffee 24, hours a day. Problem 1: our reservation has been cancelled due to a mistake on the part of Richie’s travel agent. Fortunately, we get it back. Problem 2: Our toilet won’t flush. At all. Not even on the first try. They send a guy with a plunger. He gets it to flush. Problem 3: Once the guy with the plunger is out of sight, the toilet quits flushing again. They send another guy with a plunger. He gets it to flush. Problem 4: Toilet won’t flush again. (A cleaning lady I ran into later mentioned that they’d had that problem with our toilet before we arrived, and she was surprised they’d rented out that room. Figures.) They send a guy with a plumbing snake the next day. Ahh..finally, it is fixed. I stand and watch him flush it a couple times. He leaves. Problem 5: Toilet quits flushing again. So we switch rooms. And I have asked none too early because they have only three more available by now. By this time (which was the morning after we’d checked in) it is evident to me that Art Bell is not taking well to this trip. He is unduly stressed, and with his health already fragile, I know this isn’t good. And now I’m stressed, and now I have to stress him even more by switching rooms, thus bombarding him with even more new smells and sounds and whatever his animal radar picks up on.
Our new room is a handicap room, complete with low light switches and a big shower – no tub – with a pull down seat. The bathroom has almost no counter space (unlike the massive counter in our other bathroom) and the kitchen is smaller. But that’s all OK, until I go to open the silverware drawer and can’t GET it open because there is no handle and with the countertop directly on top of the drawer, there is no room to squeeze your finger into. I pull on the side and finally get it open…then when I shut it, my finger gets smashed between the first and second drawer. Thus my first temper flare.
My second came after my first shower, when I stepped out to find the entire bathroom floor flooded. If you’ve ever seen a handicap shower, you know it is a flat entrance from the floor to the shower, but there is supposed to be enough room or enough slope to prevent flooding. When the cleaning lady comes to clean, she mentions that ours is the only room that does that. Again...figures.
We awake the next morning to a notice on our door about our check-out. Problem is, we aren’t scheduled to check out that day, but the next. We take care of this with the front desk. Richie goes to work, and I hang out in the room with a book and coffee and an increasingly declining Art Bell. I’m feeling pretty crappy myself, winded and tired from the high altitude, and of course, stressed. Soon, a man knocks on my door. He is there to clean my room once I have checked out. I tell him we aren’t checking out today, but we still need it clean, and I ask if it is OK if I remain in the room while it is cleaned. “Oh, no check out today.” He says. I ask again, slowly, if I can still have the room cleaned while I am in it. He backs away. “No check out today.” He leaves. I call the front desk to request that our room be cleaned, as we are not checking out today. They assure me that we aren’t scheduled to check out till tomorrow. (ggrrrrr.)
I go once to the lobby for some snacks. When I return, my key won’t work. I go back to the lobby to find out that our key has been deactivated, since this is our check-out day. The guy then acknowledges that we have “extended” our check out day. I half-heartedly try to explain that we weren’t originally suppose to check out until the next day anyway, but I don’t think he hears me, and I trail off at the futility of it all
I think it was on my way back to the room that I began praying. It went something like: “God, I know I have a lot to be thankful for, and these aren’t big things, but… could you maybe let things go a little more smoothly…” Honestly, the little things were only compounding the stress I was feeling over Art Bell, dealing with my altitude sickness, and trying to balance it all with being a good companion to my husband.
Thank God for science fiction and fiction in general, because they make life bearable for me at times like this. Richie and I rented Star Trek: First Contact that night. We made a couple other stops on the way, one being Staples, and I asked to borrow a pen to write in my check ledger. The guy handed me a plastic, push-top ballpoint. I pushed the top, and it wouldn’t budge. I pushed it again. On the 3rd push, which was much harder, the point of the pen suddenly popped out far beyond its standard length, indicating a broken spring. This wasn’t a big deal, as I could still write with it, but I guess it was the culmination of the irritating things that had been plaguing our week. I started laughing, then straightened up, then laughed, then straightened, up, and this cycle continued while Richie stood laughing politely with me – having no clue what was so funny, and the clerk didn’t bother to ask.
I was so exhausted by the time we reached the room that I made a cup of black tea to get through the movie. Very, very bad idea. Not only was the caffeine coursing through my body by the time we went to bed, but I discovered the Art Bell was so much worse he was possibly dying. I lay in bed all night in a state of intense grief and anxiety, sweating and praying. It was probably the worst night I’ve ever had.
The next day we checked out (for real!!) and set course for Santa Fe where I was to meet an old friend from high school and her husband. I cried and worried over Art Bell – obviously on the downslope -- all morning, while at the same time fretting over potentially ruining mine and Richie’s vacation – yet being unable to help how I felt – and on and on my thoughts and emotions whirled. We met up with my friend Jeanette and her husband Torsten (German) and had a really special time. They took us to an gourmet pizza place, then showed us around the plaza. We got to see the chapel with the miraculous staircase, and later visited a chapel purported to have dirt with healing powers. (I had asked Richie if we could go and take Art Bell.) My friend and her husband were immediate kindred spirits: supporting me, my sudden superstition, and my ailing rat, acting as though they’d known and loved me in all my weirdness for years. Jeanette and I soon found out we had even more in common than we had remembered in high school, including the same faith in God as well as the same sense of humor.
Art Bell didn’t seem to respond to the dirt, but I was more than touched when Jeanette placed some on him herself, and Torston later bent down nose to nose to talk to Art Bell. By the time we left the chapel, the combination of friendship, faith, the scent of the beeswax candles and the reverent atmosphere had brought me a peace I hadn’t felt in a long time. I purchase a candle and a rosary just to commemorate the time there.
Richie and I said our goodbyes and drove on to Red River where we had reservations at a Bed and Breakfast. We snuck Art Bell up to our room, and by this time, my turmoil and depression was back in full swing. Somehow, the Victorian décor of the room we were in intensified my grief. It was all so cold and strange. I burst into tears, wondering how things could have taken such a miserable turn. I lay for a long time stroking Art Bell – who now hadn’t taken a thing to eat or drink all day and appeared to be already dying. Richie stroked him, too. After a long time, I straightened up long enough to have a beer with Richie and look at my new Star Trek encyclopedia. We examined the different Enterprise models and the variation of uniforms over the seasons. He showed me a Borg that would actually become an endearing character on an episode I hadn’t seen yet. It was nice for a few minutes.
But, miserably exhausted, I was ready for bed by 8:00. I slept with Art Bell’s open cage by me all night, and every so often would wake up to find him in a panic of pain or discomfort – not sure which, maybe both – and would pet him to assure him I was there. My experience with rats has taught me that they always want you there. Most of my rats have waited for me to come home to hold them before they die.
The next morning I felt just as exhausted and just as depressed. I knew I couldn’t go skiing, and I was pretty sure Art Bell would be passing today or tomorrow. I did make myself go downstairs to have breakfast and coffee with Richie. During coffee, my brother called me to inquire about Art Bell. Talking to him for a little bit unburdened me in an unexpected way, and his sympathy and concern went a longer way than I’m sure he realized. I actually felt better. During breakfast, Richie and I got to know the innkeeper and his wife, Evie and Chris, a young and incredibly delightful couple. She is from (maybe) Germany – and he is from England. It turns out they are fellow conservatives (a rare thing here where the roadside is full of angry war protestors). The lady is also an animal lover and will not watch the news for the very same reasons I won’t – primarily to avoid the animal abuse stories. Having such a specific thing in common was amazing. The appetite I did NOT have upon waking now allowed me to put down an entire breakfast burrito. The conversation took me away from my grief, as interaction with people usually does.
When I returned to my room, which suddenly seemed warm and inviting, I contemplated the ways in which God had ministered to me this week: through Jeannette and Torston, Evie and Chris, and my brother. My friend Jillian, who had prayed with me yesterday morning over the phone, had prayed that somewhere in my day Jesus would allow me to see him in something. I think that has happened three times now.
I wanted to take this time to record everything. Art Bell is still the same, lying next to me in his cage, but I feel strengthened and supported. I plan to get a shower and go out with Richie for dinner. God knows I only want two things right now: for Art Bell to pass in my arms and not to suffer. So I have to have faith that God will take care of him when I am not with him.

Review of Naomi Shihab Nye's 19 Varieties of Gazelle

2008-02-16T14:00:00.000-08:00

Shortly into my reading of Naomi Shihab Nye's 19 Varieties of Gazelle, I was distracted by a sudden, severe wind outside that came with no warning and sent me scrambling for the basement. Ten minutes and a power outage later, the wind had died, leaving only a gentle fall of rain and several stunned people surveying the neighborhood damage. The only damage to my yard was the toppling of my privacy fence. Later, when I resumed my reading, I kept a wary eye on the window, somehow superstitiously convinced that the poems would usher in another wind. I turned a page, and my eyes froze on the first line of "Prayer in my Boot," which read, "For the wind no one expected."

It took me till the end of the book to realize there was not going to be another wind; the "fence" of suspicion and mistrust had fallen, and that is all Nye is aiming for. She achieves this without a violent wind. Granted, there is a force behind her voice, a zealous desire for peace, as might be expected in someone familiar with Middle East bloodshed. But she does not stand on a soapbox and shout slogans. Her voice is a calm one, both sad and optimistic, disapproving and gentle. She peels away the politics and places on maps, and gives us a Palestine in the form of coffee, almonds, figs, fruit, and tea with mint. These small bites feed us a meal of humanity more filling than protest and political platform. Nameless are many of the people in her poems -- fittingly so, for they become, as in "Olive Jar," our friends and family -- our fathers' "preference for shoes" and our grandmothers' "love for sweaters."

This edition of 19 Varieties of Gazelle was printed after the World Trade Center attacks of September 11, 2001. Nye's concern for the reputation of her people is evident in the glimpses she offers of everyday Palestinian life, an everyday life that involves both tragedy and life-savoring simplicity. It is the combination of the two that burns into our mind haunting images such as the little girl killed by the gun "which did not know [she] wanted to be a doctor."

While such scenes are effective in their disturbance, the hidden strength of these poems lies largely in the minor details. As Nye states in her introduction, "Through the immense grief in the wake of [9-11], we grasped on to the details to stay afloat. For some reason, I kept remembering a gentle Egyptian basket-seller on the streets of Cairo, and an elegant Arab man, an expert on brocade in the Old city of Jerusalem, who gave us twice the amount of cloth we paid for." Through her poems we learn that these details keep us rooted in the seemingly insignificant things that make us human.

These snapshots of humanity appear repeatedly in the cultural code of Arab hospitality. The first stanza of "Red Brocade" sums up this theme:

The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is
wher he's come from
where he's headed.
That way, he'll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you'll be
such good friends
you don't care.

One cannot help but feel Nye is speaking for herself when the poem concludes: I refuse to be claimed. / Your plate is waiting. / we will snip fresh mint / into your tea. Nye, as server, wishes the reader to be a sort of blank slate, or better yet, a guest with an empty stomach. She wishes the reader to lay aside all preconceived ideas and let the host serve fresh mint -- new ideas, refreshing truths about the Arab culture. In the poem "19 Varieties of Gazelle," she writes that the gazelle "soared like history above an empty page." Nye, distrusting written history, desires to erase old ideas and begin anew.

Nye's final poem titled "Postscript" gives a cynical commentary on the tendency of the press to pervert spoken words. "Write it down," she concludes, "Always write it down. / Say it slowly. Say it / the way you learned words. Say it / as if the words count." She makes certain that she is heard; she makes certain that the reader will understand her, will leave her table feeling full.

Review of The Monarchs: A Poem Sequence by Alison Hawthorne Deming

2008-02-16T13:57:00.000-08:00

Although the world of poetry certainly has more than its share of nature-praising verse, Alison Hawthorne Deming has thrown another log on the fire with her poetry sequence The Monarchs. A native of Connecticut who now lives in Arizona, she views the wild nature of the Southwest with the wisdom and appreciation of a former New England city liver.

So what does Deming offer as one more in a sea of nature lovers? Undoubtedly, one thing is what Scott Slovic calls Deming's "abiding fascination with natural science." The colorful imagery and unique metaphors of Deming's semi-scientific verse paint a more stirring picture than any emotional commentary could. In Writing the Sacred into the Real, Deming says, "What science-bashers fail to appreciate is that scientists, in their unflagging attraction to the unknown, love what they don't know. It guides and motivates their work; it keeps them up late at night; and it makes that work poetic."

Deming herself studies the human race in a similar way, approaching with compassion its mistakes and absurdities. While, on the one hand, the activities of people and the creatures of the natural world mirror one another, Deming's Nature sometimes chances by as a separate entity, transcending human struggles; like the Monarchs flying over the fearful townspeople in poem 4, Nature goes diligently about its business, oblivious to both our fear and fascination. A refreshing honesty underlies Deming's poetry: she is unwilling to glorify the elements of humanity that are popularly glorified, such as common perceptions of love, which she boldly declares a result of "misunderstandings" in poem 16.

Deming is not a cynic however. While she periodically equates love with untruth, she acknowledges in poem 23 that "to love is all there is / to separate us from tyrants, from the dark." Moreover, her sporadic references to dreaming make a gracious allowance for human frailty. From the would-be rapist in poem 2 to the child in poem 8 trying to dig to China, the human race engages in moments of absurd dreaming. Our dreams make us as precious or pitiable as the Monarch babies of poem 9 that "awake in a little park / surrounded by ruined cities, / not a doubt in their minuscule / minds that blooming fields await them."

The Monarchs is a contemplative study of the human race and the natural world of which it is both apart and separate. Through thought provoking insights and colorful imagery, readers of this volume will agree that Deming has met her own challenge to "make a thing out of this chaos, a thing / that will last."

I’m SICK of non-English speaking CSRs!!!

2008-02-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

I have traveled many places and have met many people. I am fairly good at understanding accents. I am also OK with the fact that not everyone speaks English, and I believe we in the U.S. should become fluent in a second language, like they do in Europe. (Teach it from the time kids are small.) But I am NOT OK with the insane outsourcing we have done. Whenever I call a major corporation, I CANNOT understand a freaking word the CSRs are SAYING. And it's getting really irritating. I'm going to start refusing to speak to them. I'm going to start asking for an English speaking representative, and if they cannot provide one, then I will complain I could not receive service and cancel my account. I've HAD it with the faltering English. Whether people like it or not, English is still the American language and I want an English speaking rep. when I call an American corporation. It is time we required that anyone in a customer service position learn how to at least passably speak the language of the people they are SERVICING.

Rethinking the "gray" areas

2008-01-25T18:47:00.000-08:00

While reading The Power of Healing by Francis MacNutt, I came across this quote by Dr. Paul Tournier: People who have the sort of mind that sees only one side to every question tend toward vigorous action. They succeed in everything they do because they do not stop to split hairs and have abounding confidence in their own abilities. your successful journalist, for instance, is inclined to simplify every problem and condense it into an arresting phrase. On the other hand, those with subtle and cultivated minds tend to get lost in a maze of fine distinction. They always see how complicated things really are, so that their powers of persuasion are nil. That is why the world is led by those who are least suited to raising its cultural and moral standards. It is only a very few who manage to combine both tendencies, and in my view a lively Christian faith is the best precondition for the accomplishment of this miracle, because it gives both profound understanding and simplicity of heart.

Following this quote, MacNutt goes on to discuss the "anti-intellectual bias" of which Pentecostals, in their simplification of healing doctrine, have been the victims. I have often been guilty of "anti-intellectual bias" (bias against anything that seems non-intellectual). However, life's experience has been teaching me that those who sacrifice absolutes on the altar of intellect, those who see ONLY the gray areas and scoff at the simple-minded concept of black and white, are ineffective as leaders and Christians. Quite frankly, their faith is unimpressive. Furthermore, they suffer from the arrogance they claim of their faith-preaching opponents. Is it not as arrogant and presumptuous to proclaim that there ARE no absolutes as it is to proclaim there are? At least the absolutes proclaimed by fundamentalists come from scripture; the gray areas proclaimed by "intellectuals" generally come from their own minds -- as if they are a higher authority. (I'm now speaking of some Christian intellectuals.) Isn't there more of a humility in accepting the blacks and whites given to us in scripture and leaving the complicated gray areas to God? In short, I am finding the intellectual and philosophical crowds to be as foolish looking, if not more so, than the fundamentalists from whom they distance themselves.