The Tail of Hoover

This is something of a confession, because it's hard to say straight out that I hit poor Hoover when backing the car out of the garage. It's the undeniable truth, and Hoover has the shaved leg and inability to walk, at least until the damaged tissue around his luxated hip heals in a week or so, to show for it. The vet was able to pop his femur back into his hip socket pretty easily, but she needed to take a few x-rays to find the exact cause and point of obvious pain.

It makes me feel guilty and incompetent, and every time I have to pick Hoover up to move him to another room to be with us or to take him outside to exercise his functions, he wails pitifully in pain. It's as if the sound were part of my punishment for carelessness. Fortunately, Hoover will be fine, but it's a misery he shouldn't have had to endure.

To make matters worse; actually there are two matters making matters worse, but I'll address them one at a time. The x-rays showed that Hoover's knees are fairly rotted with arthritis, which I can't take the blame for. However, about 99% of the world's dog lovers are convinced that Glycosamine is the answer and yet there are no studies to prove this. I suspect that I will be paying for large quantities of this product. That's the bad part. The good part is that they're beef flavored and Hoover loves them.

The second matter is that Rufus—cuddly, cute, adorable, irresistible puppy that he is, gives Hoover an inferiority complex, though he seems to have noticed that Hoover doesn't feel like playing. But there's nothing like a peppy puppy to make an aging beast feel old.

I also worry, because even five-days after the accident, Hoover is still pretty much immobilized and obviously uncomfortable. He's more alert and hasn't lost his appetite, but there's no real evidence of healing. He's getting lots of pats, though.

Day 6

We've decided Hoover needs to visit the vet and have made an appointment. No sooner is this done, then we take Hoover outside and all of the lack of function we've just explained to the vet suddenly disappears. He hobbles around, does what he needs to do, and though still rather obviously in pain, looks pleased with himself. (Am I guilty of anthropomorphizing?) No vet today, and we're feeling better, too.

Coffee ad absurdum

My personal coffee roaster, Zero Profit Coffee, sent me a fresh batch of Colombia Huila Concurso San Pedro last week. What I didn't realize without a lengthy explanation, is that the name says it all, but we'll get to that. Nick, the coffee-obsessed poet and head roaster of Zero Profit, likes to know what I think of his efforts, so I dutifully do might best to come up with some adjectives to describe my inevitable pleasure with everything he provides.

I think I mentioned something about a pleasant unctuousness and remembrance of chocolates past. I may even have stuck myself out on a limb to declare it well-balanced and without any sour notes—nothing terribly specific. Mainly, it makes a fine cup of drip, extracts a pleasingly thick shot that stands up well under steamed milk.

But I did recently state that I wished there were a way to categorize coffee more clearly and consistently, so after I sent my comments, Nick sent me the following from his supplier of green beans. I think it' a rating from www.coffeegeek.com:

Colombia Huila Concurso San Pedro (2.5 Star?!?)

Country: Colombia
Grade: Estate
Region: Guadalupe, Huila
Mark: Guadalupe Municipal Competition Winner, Saint Peter Competition
Processing: Wet Processed
Crop: October, 2008
Arrival Appearance: .4 d/300gr, 17-18 Screen
Varietal: Caturra, Typica
Dry Fragrance (1-5) 3.7

Notes about the San Pedro coffee competition: "Hector Alfonso Vargas Mayor of Guadalupe, Huila since 1/1/2008 was elected with the Support of coffee growers and promising an agenda of improvement in the social development and change to the political manners in this remote municipality in Huila. His aim is to encourage the citizens' participation (with the support of the local Church / Pastoral Social) and foster development ("Guadalupe Comunitario" and "Guadalupe Sostenible") by doing "Politics" in a different manner than what this community has seen up to now." So one of the first steps was to hold a small, local coffee "concurso," a competition, judged by national cuppers and an exporter, with the top prize being a brand new coffee pulper! The top 25 received awards and a new coffee maker, and all receoved a premium price for the coffee. This was in June, the product of the mid-year "mitaca" harvest and not the main crop. And the concurso was part of the general celebration for the Dia del San Pedro, hence the name.

We agreed to buy the winning lot, which is a mix of the top coffees, and I wasn't quite sure if it would be good (since I wasn't one of the 3 judges). But we were promised we could reject it if it was just average, and I really WANTED it to be good, and support the event and the efforts of the Mayor and the farmers. Happily, the lot arrived and I love it.

[This is where things start to strain credulity.]
The coffee has intense-yet-subtle aromatics. In the lighter roasts, sweet raisin notes are embedded in layers of chocolate. Darker roasts have a triad of chocolate-spice-raisin, dense and somewat pungent to the nose. There are some unexpected fruits that surface in the wet aroma; a touch of baked pineapple, blackberry, and apple turnover. It has a sumtuous, darkly sweet character. The cup flavors have strong raisin and dry plum notes. There's clove-like spice accents…, but it's this creamy, thick body that gives the cup such balance in overall character. As it cools, an apple flavor is fleshed out, more specifically, spiced baked apple and apple pie. It finishes with chocolate bittersweetness. Such a balanced coffee, I immediately thought of S.O. espresso, and it is a fantastic shot, even at lighter roast levels (FC) than are possible with other coffees.

2.5 Star???: We have a new approach in Colombia, with 4 tiers of coffee: 1-Star, 2-Star, 3-Star, 4-Star. This lot doesn't quite conform, since it was a competition lot, but I did not personally go to Colombia and select it. It was also not vacuum-packed in Colombia, like our 3 star lots, but it is every bit as good. So, rather jokingly, we call it 2.5 Star. I know, that's a lot of stars to keep track of. Consider that 1-Star = fine Specialty coffee you might find at a good local roaster, 2-Star is regional specialty lots that sometimes can be remarkable (so when we offer a 2-Star, you can assume it really stood out on the cupping table). 3-Star and 4-Star are our direct trade program, Farm Gate Coffee, and involve cupping hundreds of tiny farm-distinct lots.
Wet Aroma (1-5) 3.8
Brightness - Acidity (1-10) 8.7
Flavor - Depth (1-10) 9.1
Body - Mouthfeel (1-5) 3.8
Finish - Aftertaste (1-10) 9
Cupper's Correction (1-5) 1 Intensity/Prime Attribute: Medium-Bold intensity / Creamy body, fruited notes, chocolate, balance
add 50 50 Roast: City+ to Full City: FC makes a great, balanced espresso as well
Score (Max. 100) 89.1 Compare to: This Huila cups a bit out of character, perhaps like a Tolima coffee, with great balance. This coffee is part of our direct trade Farm Gate pricing tranparency program.

If you made it to the end of this absurd description, then welcome to the club! I like the story of how this particular bean came got it's name and that the quality is a result of local pride and even free-market competition. There's a lot of silliness here, but I'd be happy to drink these beans in the Zero Profit roast every day.

Perhaps the Worst Movie…, Ever

Not as bad as "Plan 9 From Outer Space," but we're talking about a big-budget feature of the 21st Century. I'm reminded of "The Producers," in search of a sure flop, but we're in on the joke. This time, there's no joke, and I'm not kidding.

Poor August Rush. He hears things. When he's not hearing things, he thinks about the thing that has never existed in his life; his parents. But fear not. The spirit forces are working in his favor. The spirits are working overtime: with the mother in Chicago, with the father in San Francisco, with the social worker, the black minister, the pig-tailed little girl with the big voice, and the guitar-playing black kid with rhythm. How are they all going to end up in the same place at the same time by the end of the movie and live happily ever after?

Well, it hardly matters. The parents, who don't actually know they have a son and spent all of one evening together in their lives, "it was a very special night," are playing Romeo and Juliet. August is living the life of The E.T., which I'm guessing is why he keeps looking to the stars for answers. Most of the other characters have bit roles in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," and are inexplicably drawn to Central Park in New York on the same summer evening. On the other hand, the Pied Piper of musical street urchins, as played by Robin Williams, is really a musical Fagin straight out of "Oliver Twist," complete with hide out full of boys who share their day's earnings on the street with "the family." He spends a lot of time counting money; lots of it.

By the way, 12-year-old August is supposed to be a musical prodigy. Can you believe that he actually masters the guitar, the piano, composition, and conducting in six months? No problem. His parents are also unbelievably talented. We know, because the rockin' father can pick up a guitar that hasn't been played in 12 years and it's magically in perfect tune. The "virgin" mother's (we don't actually know that there was a conception or a birth) cello playing is so remarkable, that after twelve years of silence and an untouched cello, the New York Philharmonic mails her a letter to ask if she'll come play with them. Wow, this is special!

We sighed in disbelief, we groaned with pain, why the hell did we watch the entire movie of "August Rush?" There was one well-played role and it happened to be my mother-in-law, Marian Seldes, in the role of the Dean of Juilliard; a thankless role but one with a small shred of dignity. Marian actually taught Robin Williams in the first years of the Juilliard Drama Department, but it hardly mattered. Absurd plot, bad script, horrific direction, and inexcusably bad movie—its a script that appears to have been written by someone with no knowledge of reality and a high regard for coincidence and miracles.

On the bright side, I've heard anecdotally that the movie was shown on a lot of airplane flights. Pleasant dreams.

What's wrong with Baseball

I was watching the fifth game of the World Series last night and thinking that it didn't seem like ideal conditions to show off the best in baseball. It was 40°, windy and raining steadily. Why were they playing?

Fast forward. The World Series is over and Philadelphia prevailed after a two-day delay and a two-and-a-half-inning continuation. We could change the subject and talk about how great and exciting this abbreviated evening of baseball was, but I'd like to stick to my original question: what's wrong with baseball?

It's easy. The answer is greed, which is often the answer to questions that begin "what's wrong with." TV is paying for the World Series. TV has it's reasons for wanting the game to be played despite the cold and rain. These reasons also have to do with greed. Sponsors, mainly Budweiser, are paying TV to pay Baseball to broadcast the World Series.

Aside from the obvious greed motive, why does baseball need so much money when the result is a watered-version of the game? It's obvious. Owners and players are also greedy. Owners couldn't pay the players nearly as much if it weren't for all that TV money. I think we're finding a consistent them in this discussion. Lots of the problems with baseball, and all of professional sports, have to do with greed, which has very little to do with the sports.

Interestingly, there's a big greed thing going on in the world of international economics these days, as well. If sports is a metaphor for life, why shouldn't greed permeate every aspect of the game? This one's got me stumped, though it does seem as though greed isn't the best thing in all cases when it comes to figuring out the world's finances. So maybe there is a lesson here, afterall.

The Obama Heard 'round the World

Of all the people I work with, including colleagues, freelancers, and authors, I only know of one who said he preferred McCain to Obama. He's an Israeli living in New York City who thought that if Iran needed bombing, McCain was the one most likely to get it done. Talk about your one-issue voters!

Even a sampling of international authors turned up nary a wiff of support for McCain. A colleague in the U.K. expressed great relief that Palin would not be representing the U.S. at World meetings. To him, that was the scariest thing on the Republican ticket.

An author in the Netherlands couldn't understand how anyone could believe Obama was a socialist. He seemed rather conservative by Dutch standards. He also felt that 90% of Dutch voters would have supported Obama.

A German friend living in the Philippines expressed horror at the thought of any more years of Bush's failed policies. How could American's have kept him in office for two terms?

Another colleague in the U.K. commented that he hoped the Secret Service was being particularly watchful, which seems to be something that many people are worried about, including the CIA. I read today that they've got a whole new team attached to Obama (almost literally).

The fact is, the person we elect to be President is important to nearly everyone in the world in a way that no other world leaders can quite equal. What has made this so painfully obvious is the current failed administration of Bush and his cronies. Our cowboy president's reckless, heedless, and greedy reign may have diminished our stature in the world, but not our importance. We really can wreck the world's economy without any help from our allies.

Obama makes me proud to be an American. When was the last time I could say that?

Reading Coffee

Nick, our private roaster, has sent home a new blend. It's like the floor sweepings at the end of the shift at the spice factory; a little bit of whatever happened to be around that day. Everything Nick roasts is wonderful, simply because he buys high-quality beans and does roast more than a pound at a time, it's very fresh.

I've become somewhat coffee obsessed, not nearly so much as Nick, but knowing Nick only makes my obsession worse. For instance, we like to talk about the coffee he makes, which makes us sound like wine snobs. For instance, I'm sipping an extraction from the beans that have just arrived home. There's a flavor in this coffee that is reminiscent of something Nick roasted a while back. I'm going to assume that it's not a Central or South American bean flavor, perhaps one of those oddly assertive Harrar beans mixed in. It definitely affects the balance, but balance, per se, isn't necessarily an important quality for me.

It does not taste fruity, at all. It's a bit on the sharp side, like a sharp cheddar, if it's fair to say this about coffee. I'm really stretching my limits of credulity on this one. I probably prefer something less assertive, but this is definitely good; better than the mocha java I brought home from Willoughby's, which was okay. I think they specialize in french roasts. Most of the beans in the store are quite dark, but with a beautiful oily sheen. I also recently had some french roast beans from Starbucks that were blackened to a dull lifelessness, just burnt-looking.

People leave the room when Nick and I get started. The problem is, it's all nonsense. We're trying to adapt standard vocabulary to describe flavors and sensations that are complex and esoteric. They're really just very personal impressions that don't help much when buying coffee. Today, my mother asked me what kind of coffee she should buy in Baltimore? I can make suggestions, but there are standards in the industry that will help her the way there is for wine.

Essentially, the labelling of roasted coffee beans, is pretty much unregulated. It helps that there are a lot of single origin beans on the market, but they're most labeled only by country of origin and there's plenty of variation within countries. It also makes a difference that there are organics, shade grown, and bird friendly beans, but this says nothing about the quality of the bean. Of course, things get more complicated when you start mixing beans for balance.

Nonetheless, I want to know where the beans are from, country and region, or even finca or plantation name, like wines, which I know nothing about. I want to know some designation of bean, including size, wet or dry process, and harvest year. I suspect Sweet Maria (Nick's mail order, green bean supplier in Oakland) must list all of these things, so I'm sure the information is available.

Then I want to categorize the roast from light to dark and I wish there were a way to quantify darkness. French Roast, Viennese Roast, Italian Roast are only relative terms, not good enough unless someone can establish an industry standard. And I don't like the term espresso roast. We need a completely different vocabulary for beans meant for steam extraction.

When I first became familiar with Starbucks we were visiting our friend Joy in Portland. It seemed like a revelation at the time, but I realize now that we were wowed by the brilliant marketing. I didn't drink coffee at the time, so the whole thing was a brand experience for me. I was especially taken with the rolls of nicely-designed color stickers they had to put on the bags of coffee. I remember the fishing boat logo for the Yukon Blend. On the other hand, what the hell is Yukon blend? It's all image and connotation. For us manly types, this should be a positive association that makes us feel manly about drinking a manly brew before reeling in the day's catch from the roiling and frigid Arctic seas. Blood and Guts Blend wouldn't sell as well.

On the other hand, tea packagers have been doing this for at least a century. What is Orange Pekoe? It's not a tea leaf, but a grade of black tea. It's quite generic. And what about English Breakfast, which is a rather non-specific blend of various black teas that are meant to be hearty enough to stand up to dilution with milk? It's not even necessarily all Indian tea. And then there's Irish Breakfast which is usually all Assam tea. So why not call it Assam? Because marketing trumps full disclosure. Shall we go on to discuss John McCain's difficulties with truth in campaign advertising? Perhaps another time.

Blogging in Verse

Whose blog this is I think I know.
His laptop's in the study though;
He will not see me reading here
Watching this space fill up with words.

I've been asked to blog in verse, but such is not my bent. I'm not even good with doggerel and am terrible with rhymes. On the other hand, I did blog once about the poetry missing in our lives. Interestingly, I have no idea how to find that blog since poetry is not one of my designated categories and I don't remember what I was referring to.

It was not too long ago that I asked one of our project managers, Beth, if she was familiar with the Stevie Smith poem, "Not waving but drowning," and she was! This delighted me. My colleagues Dom and Frank are both knowledgeable about poetry and have had occasion to discuss poetry with Katharine when we were all meeting in Chicago. There's something in me that finds this kind of abstract knowledge deeply satisfying, even though I possess so little of it myself. It's a knowledge for knowledge's sake, and yet I've only known thoughtful people who care about it and I like thoughtful people.

Please forgive the awful opening of this blog. I suppose I could do better with some effort, but like drawing for me, it's an effort that is more painful than pleasant. I don't mind writing, I do mind writing verse. When I was studying architecture, I actually enjoyed drafting, but I didn't like drawing. When I was studying music, I liked playing, but I didn't like composing. And when I was studying theater, I liked everything: tech and acting, though perhaps not directing. The only thing I was any good at was drafting, and that wasn't anything to be particularly proud of.

I will have to find the poetry in my life from other things besides writing verse. Perhaps my friends, like Nick, will do me the honor.

Taking it Personally

I couldn't sleep last night, which for me is quite unusual. I dozed, I saw the hours pass on the clock, I thought about the work I need to get done, and something else kept running through my sheep counting. I couldn't help thinking about last night's presidential debate and it made me feel angry. It was keeping me awake!

Once again, a distinguished, articulate, thoughtful, well-informed democrat was meeting a self-satisfied, inarticulate, rude, and ill-informed republican. Once again, pundits called it a draw. I knew they would, but it outrages me every time, a trait I've inherited from my Mother. First of all, why are the pundits such cowards? The only news broadcast claiming to be "fair and balanced" is Fox, and they wasted no time declaring a victory for McCain. All the other networks seem to bend over backward to be "balanced" to the point of political correctness.

But what really agitated me was the missed opportunities for Obama to skewer McCain, who repeatedly insulted his soft-spoken opponent by calling him "naive." What if on the third or fourth repetition Obama had retorted that "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?" Or perhaps something more along the lines of: their was no act more naive than voting to approve the Bush war in Iraq.

It's hard not to get defensive when your opponent makes up facts, distorts the truth, and shows a lack of respect and knowledge. But how much better to turn the tables on name calling? How much better to respond to a rambling, repetitive answer on Afghanistan (but not about Afghanistan) by saying "so you have no plans for Afghanistan?" Let's put the little pugilist on the defensive, instead.

In fact, I think the next New Yorker cover (I thought of this while laying awake last night, as well) should feature a boxing ring with a map of the world on the floor and centered on Iraq. Jim Lehrer is the ref. On the left side, with his feet in Israel is the short, sweaty, McCain swinging wildly at the air. On the right side, with his feet in Pakistan, is the cool, tall Obama, holding off his opponent with one boxing glove to the forehead. I think Barry Blitt would do a fine job with this image.

I'm feeling better this morning. Many of those calling round 1 a draw are also saying that the tie goes to Obama. That McCain needed a victory on foreign policy, but Obama held his own and looked more presidential (a vague notion if there ever was one). In fact, McCain looked as if he'd rather be almost anywhere but Oxford, Mississippi.

My father, ever the physician, noted that McCain looked like he might have Horner's Syndrome
(droopy eyelid), a sign of various neurological problems, including Alzheimer's. Fortunately, there's nothing to worry about. Palin will make a great president.

Lying is Good For You!

You have probably been told that you can get away with crying wolf once, but come the third time, your lies will catch up with you and the wolf will have you for supper. I say it's broccoli, and I say to hell with it. This fable has more to do with foolishness than with lying, which I maintain is a sign of sophistication. After all, it is only the youngest children who tell no lies and by a very young age we have taught our children how to prevaricate.

I am not making a value judgment. In fact, I am removing any sense or good or bad from the act of telling lies. When the president tells you that there are weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, he's decided to misrepresent the truth for the greater good. He did a really good job getting lots of important people to believe him, but his little story got a lot of people killed. History is full of such lies that shouldn't have been told. What looks good to some can look bad to others, even when the lie is revealed as unpurified snake oil.

On the other hand, let's say someone asked me if I was looking for a job and I said I'm always looking for a job. And let's say the person asking was my boss who was expecting a lie along the lines of I'm happy, contented, and despite the vast array of job-seeking tools, listings, and information at my fingertips, haven't sent out a resumé since the day I was hired. The only surprising thing is that I didn't tell a lie when I should have.

Yes, your royal highness, that suit of invisible clothing is very becoming to your paunch. A child would never know to say the expected if it weren't true. The emperor has no clothes! Kids do say the darndest things, but we all grow up and learn to say the expected. We learn the art of smalltalk, the subtleties of the compliment, the politically correct (even when it's factually incorrect). Why do we do this?

We lie because we must. We even lie to ourselves. We are our own worst flatterers, unless we have a poor self-image, in which case we are our own worst enemies. The necessity for lying is two-fold. One is that not everything is black and white, on or off, meat or fish. There are algae and germs and all sorts of gray areas open to interpretation, which leads to dogma, differences of opinion, and divergent views of reality. Which is why one man's god is another's devil, why all capitalists are lying pigs, and all who disagree are enemies. It's the stuff of Orwellian worlds.

The other necessity is forced on us by human nature; we lie to gain some sort of advantage or avoid embarrassment. (I think these two amount to the same thing.) "I finished my homework, can I go out and play?" What do homework and play have to do with each other? Pretty much nothing, so this lie works, as long as it's not scrutinized too closely. We invite lying and then reinforce it every time we try to lay down the law in a controlling, yet arbitrary way. (I'm not going to get into a discussion of child-rearing tactics, here.)

It's not so surprising that children lie to their parents, but I'm amazed how often parents feel they must lie to their children. "You mean Santa Claus isn't real!" But the most amazing is how much grown-ups lie to each other, especially at work. There are any of terms for this - manipulation, hidden agenda, managing to an outcome - but it's all the same and it's all untruths.

My problem is one of naiveté. I believe in mutual respect, which greatly obviates the need for untruths. It works across age groups and office hierarchies, but it only works when it really is mutual. Otherwise you end up like Atahualpa, whose Incan empire was defeated by a puny force of Spaniards led by Pisaro, who was so cunning that Atahualpa couldn't believe he'd been defeated.

The Blind Men and the Elephant

It is the day after Thanksgiving. A day known in retail circles as "Black Friday," but a day otherwise without significance. It is a good day for the official launch of The Bloggregator! I have invited Callie, Chris, Jamie, Nick, and Lisa to join in a group blog for no other reason than to exercise our thoughts and further attempt to make sense of them in written form. Who else would like to join this endeavor in writing to friends and strangers? 

The Bloggregator is my name for the tool we are using to collect and publish our writings. Right now, we are simply a group of WordPress members contributing to a single blog, which I have given the name Manifold Predictions. This refers to a story that occurred to Chris when I first attempted to explain my idea for a Bloggregator to him. It is the story of the blind men and the elephant: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blind_Men_and_an_Elephant 

In one version of the story, there are many ways to state the same truth, and it is this open-minded view that is known as the theory of Manifold Predictions. So chew on this and digest in good health and harmony. On to further feasts!

-originally published 11/23/07 on Manifold Predictions

A Cold Winter's Blogging

It is cold. The windchill was -9.5° this morning with more of the same for tomorrow. But we took a walk up to the Clamshell Pinnacle in Steep Rock with no ill effects and tonight's chicken was grilled outside. I'm wearing my long-sleeved, zip-neck Patagonia long underwear and my flannel-lined blue jeans from L. L. Bean, but the weather doesn't really affect us, much.

Then I think about the house we live in. It is known as a center-chimney colonial and was built in 1796 around a massive brick chimney that occupies about a fourth of the square footage of this house and includes four fireplaces plus a beehive oven. There was certainly no insulation and there were no storm windows, and it was considerably colder 200-years ago. And they knew not of Patagonia or L. L. Bean. How did they keep warm?

This is also the time of year when sap in the maples starts to rise. It won't be rising much today or tomorrow, but Valentine's Day is in four days and it is the traditional beginning of maple syrup season. They were already boiling sap down the hill in Woodbury this past weekend. We'll be putting out a few buckets again this year, but we won't be boiling over an open wood fire in an outdoor sugar house. That's an activity that could keep one warm, but we've got a gas stove for the job.

I wonder if our lack of necessity and abundance of conveniences and comforts has put an end to a natural sense of poetry in our lives. There just isn't a need for Robert Frost in an age of polyester insulation and waterproof boots—no horses harnesses, no muddy tramps, no swingers of birches. We are warm, but with very little poetry in our lives. Is there a solution?

-originally published 2/12/08 on Manifold Predictions

Kindergarten Readiness

 

When Timothy was four, we were told that our eldest son was “not kindergarten ready,” but we didn’t believe it. In fact, we were incredulous for a number of reasons. Despite the fact that Timothy, with a mid-October birthday, was young for his class, he was tall and had an extensive vocabulary (according to his pediatrician). He seemed creative, responsive, and outgoing. Perhaps too outgoing for the perfect little Berkeley, California nursery school he attended. Outgoing enough to cross the line into what his teachers thought was more like the selfishly, anti-social behavior of a three-year-old; definitely not kindergarten ready.

We moved back east that year and trusting our own judgement over the dire warnings of the professional educators, enrolled Timothy in kindergarten, where he immediately learned to read, add, and function at an advanced level in the classroom. This past weekend he graduated from Yale University with distinction and received half-dozen prizes, including one of the five college-wide prizes awarded to undergraduates. 

Not Kindergarten ready? The phrase seems to have more to do with the readiness of teachers and administrators to accept the full range of challenges that a classroom full of children from diverse backgrounds presents. There are obviously children who thrive in school and others who fail. We praise the former and humiliate the latter, but it is difficult to categorize with any sort of consistency those who will advance to the highest levels of achievement and self-esteem or their opposites. Again, Timothy is a case in point.

In eighth grade, now at his second “Montessori School” (which I put in quotes because one Montessori School is as different from another as one student can be from another), Timothy again ran up against the anti-social behavior problem. His teachers found his actions so upsetting that, we were told, they would go home crying at the end of each day. So it was explained to us that for the sake of the teachers and the class, that Timothy would no longer be welcome in the classroom or even on school grounds.

Admittedly, our eighth grader was wonderfully adept at outsmarting his teachers and making them feel as though they had lost control of the entire class. He was not violent nor loud, simply peevish and disagreeable, what used to be called a “smart-aleck,” but in the extreme. By this time, Timothy’s gifts were abundantly clear as a musician, artist, original and analytical thinker, and writer. He was also arguably the worst athlete in his class, the most self-absorbed, the least concerned with conforming, and the most likely to lead his classmates into some new interest like birds, mushrooms, or fort building.

Being thrown out of a Montessori school eighth grade is not good for the self-esteem of the eighth grader. He felt like a failure, was cut off from his friends, and was even black-balled in his application to prep-school for 9th grade admissions. Was this Timothy’s failure or the school’s failure; a failure of teachers and administrators who we trust to recognize and reward talent while knowing how to deal with difficult developmental issues? 

Ah, you might say. He wasn’t kindergarten ready and it came back to bite him. Nonsense, he was bored with work he understood instantly and saw as demeaning. To have held him back a year would only have exacerbated the problem. Given the opportunity to advance rapidly, Timothy thrived. When treated with disrespect, Timothy bridled and rebelled, which to the teacher bent on conformist learning, looked like bad, willful behavior.

So what about high school, how did Timothy survive, thrive, and regain his self-esteem? We couldn’t find a school that seemed to fit with who Timothy was for ninth grade, so we enrolled him in an alternative school for students in the performing arts. At the same time, he was accepted in Juilliard Pre-college as a composer, which allowed him, for the first time, to see that he was not so different from other children—he no longer felt like the weird odd-ball. This had nothing to do with his relative age, his emotional growth, or his innate intelligence. For the first time in school, he got to be who he was, and being true to himself, even before he had developed this advanced sense of self-awareness, was immeasurably more important to his education than the date of his birth.

I realize that my descriptions make Timothy, with all his gifts, eccentricities, and odd and difficult behaviors, sound like something of a freak. For instance, he never finished high school, opting instead for a year of directed study that included weekends at Juilliard, piano studies with a well-known pianist (the pianist arranged for a grant so that Timothy could study with him), literature and french tutorials, classes at the local art association. His year’s independent study culminated in a lecture performance on Ives’ Concord Sonata and American Transcendentalism that was presented at Juilliard.

To most of his former eighth grade colleagues, none of whom attended the performances, I suspect this would have seemed like mighty dull stuff—dry, academic, and certainly not as important as checking off all the items on the assignment rubric so the teacher can figure out how well you completed the work. And he didn’t win any varsity letters. But was happy as a non-conformist—happy to be who he was, happy to have peers and teachers who liked him the way he was and who respected him for what he was.  

Should children be kindergarten ready or should kindergartens be child ready? I think I’ve answered the question.

-CA

Disciplinary Inaction

Discipline is not my strong suit. I lack the discipline to eat with restraint, to exercise regularly without constant reminders, to get my homework done. It's not surprising that I'm unable to keep up a blog with any sort of regularity. For a while, when I started this blog, writing entries was a form of relaxation. This was while I was hating being tortured at work and writing provided a break, an opportunity to clear my mind of demons as a necessary exercise in mental health. And since I enjoy writing, I started this blog-as-therapy. Now what?

I used to be a writer or at least I write a dozen or so computer books, depending on how one counts them. I wrote hundreds of articles: reviews, features, profiles. Mostly I wrote about computers, but I wrote about local businesses and people as well as a number of music reviews. I tried writing fiction, some stories, an unfinished screenplay, and half of a novel. And I liked writing, which isn't to say that it was easy.

One of the things I liked best about writing was saying that I was a writer. It's embarrassing to admit this because it's so narcissistic, but it did my ego good to be a writer. I like saying that I'm an editor, which is what I am now, but it does sound as creative and it's pleasant to think that what I do is creative. Nonetheless, both writing and editing require a good deal of discipline, which is hard for me.

As an editor, I work with a lot of other people and so there are regular expectations, which keeps me honest. And there's a schedule. Work needs to get done in a timely way, which forces discipline. Professional writing has that nice scheduled quality and so I was able to act like a responsible citizen when I had deadlines to meet.

Perhaps I could pick up where I left off and start writing computer articles again. I might even get paid to do this. There's a lot of sense to this, but now that I spend a good deal of my time listening to pitches from others, I'm loathe to pitch my own ideas. Dare I say that pitching ideas stifles creativity? On the other hand, perhaps it's this ridiculous idea that I need to be "creative" that is stifling my ability to express some thought in writing. Oh, what irony!

The fact is, I'm spending too much time being an editor to find time to write. Writing is time-consuming and there are always more chapters to edit. This may be the real conflict, which is reasonable and justifiable. Hooray! No need for self-flagellation with guilt. But it is hard to write infrequently. So I will endeavor to write more frequently. I'm going to keep a list of ideas to write about. It's a list I started a while ago, but haven't even been able to keep current. But it's a new school year and so I shall try to be disciplined and keep something fresh in my blog, even if no one is reading it. But that's a subject for another blog.

On Being an Editor

I like it.

This is not the first time I have been an editor. That was in high school when I was selected to be an editor of our school literary magazine. The faculty advisor chose me because he liked me, but I was not a very active member of the editorial board and I made no contributions to the magazine. I didn't like writing and had no idea what I was supposed to do as an editor. But I did like my fellow editors, who were all smart and interesting. I felt like a fraud.

It took 15 years and the advent of personal computers and WYSISYG word processing, but I did learn to write. It also took a ruthless editor with no patience for errors and ceaseless demands for clarity and concision. I might have picked up a few tips on editing from Katharine along the way, as well. It was certainly good training.

But writing didn't pay very well, at least, not for me, which is when I became a real editor with a full-time paying job for a publisher. It was exciting and seemed ideal—small press, smart publisher, a dozen or so good books a year, and all having to do with software development, but our best laid plans can go astray. After an 18-month training period in how not to be an editor and how not to treat authors, colleagues, and pretty much everyone in the world, I got fired and spent the next three years not being an editor or a writer. Axes will fall.

Despite the negative experience, I liked editing. I like working with smart people who are passionate about what they do and are so far beyond office politics that they can seem almost childishly naive (which is just like being honest). As an editor, as opposed to a writer, you actually have to work with other people, and despite the fact that bosses tend to make my life miserable, I actually like working in an atmosphere of mutual respect. This is perfect! I like writers who don't know how to write but are experts in their fields. They like techie editors who know the vocabulary sufficiently to guide the writing process, but can't code their way out of a "Hello World" example. I believe this is known as a mutually-beneficial relationship.

So now I'm editing, again. I talk to smart people every day (or at least exchange email). An atmosphere of mutual respect is practically written into our contracts, and this carries over to all levels of the organization. I don't dread the bosses, they don't seem to want to have me fired, yet, and I don't sigh loudly throughout the workday. I don't even feel like a fraud. Perhaps I should thank that high school teacher who liked me. Kenny, where are you?