Engineering? Really?

December 1: Reverb Broads Prompt

"If the you of today could go back in time and give advice to any of the previous yous, which age would you visit and what would you tell them?"

 Kristen at kristendomblogs.com

To the middle school me, I would tell her "Never to let anyone take a picture of you on a bad hair day." The frightening thing is that given the grin on my face, I was pretty happy with my efforts. Must have been a dress up day at school.




But in general, I'm not sure there is much I would be able to tell previous me's that would have made any difference. I have have made my mistakes and learned from them. They are the mistakes of youth. The mistakes we all have made as we travel through this life. They the errors that we are warned against, but we are young, we know what we are doing, we don't need to listen. And really, would you want to change your path? Remember, it is the one that brought you to where you are today.



Still, there is one thing that I do wish the young me would be willing to listen to. Perhaps because of where I have ended up professionally, I do wish that someone would have talked to the high school me about becoming an engineer. I imagine I wouldn't have listened. It's even possible that someone did. And then I still would have had to make it through college chemistry and calculus, both of which were enough to convince me to not be a chemistry major*. Still, there is a part of me that is awfully curious about what I may have missed by sticking with the social sciences.






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* For the curious, I ended up with a degree in sociology.

Snippet

Along with many others, past and present, I am spending November participating in NaNoWriMo and attempting to write a novel. Or, at the very least attempting to write fifty-thousand words (yes, 50,000) that could, at some point become a novel.

At the end of today, in order to be on pace to finish my 50k words for the month, I should have 21,671 words.  As of right now, I'm at 19,305.  I'd like to be a a littler further along, but I am thrilled with what I have accomplished.  Now, many of my character's don't have names.  Lucy's uncle, at least for right now is named Uncle; her best friend is named Friend; the Friend's husband, his name is FHusband.  There's also Examiner, Gran, Nanna, Old Woman, and wife.  The whole point of NaNoWriMo is quantity.  To put something down on paper, to put anything down on paper so you have something to edit later.

This is not a cat named Frank

I have been "going to" write a novel for years. Mostly I never got started because I didn't have the whole thing planned out in my head.  What I'm learning as I write this month is that I don't need to have the end in sight.  Often, I have heard authors say that their characters take them places they never expected. Until this month, I had never understood that.  I had thought the author should be able to control the story.  I now understand how the character gets hit with a great idea and that changes the story.

So, glutton for external praise that I am, here is a snippet of Lucy's story.  Let me know what you think.

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     Lucy pulled into the house driveway with a huge sigh of relief.  Seeing Uncle’s old tan and brown F10 pickup through the garage window she parked on the other side of the driveway.  Gasping as her bladder protested the sudden change in motion, she put the car in park, turned off the ignition, and raced around the house to the back door.  The Coke she had treated herself to at the truck stop in combination with the 24oz vending machine cappuccino she bought as she was leaving were making their presence painfully clear.  Knowing that the back door into the mudroom was always open, even if the house doors were not, and that it was extremely close to a toilet to that door were her prime considerations. 

     Swinging the backdoor open, forgetting that the spring was long since gone, Lucy cringed as the screen door handle slammed into the side of the house.  In years past that would have been cause for discipline.  Lucy, more than once, had stood on the back step in the cold practicing opening and closing the door quietly one hundred times as punishment for slamming the door closed in anger or even absentmindedly throwing the door open so that it banged against the house.  Uncle had no patience for those sorts of antics from a girl he was trying to teach to be a lady.

     Crossing the threshold , Lucy made the turn into the grimy bathroom, dropped her pants, and sighed as relief burst out of her. Lucy took stock of her surroundings.  Her vomit-speckled jeans cuffs were dragging on the floor of the bathroom.  At least their blackish-blue color was a nice complementing to the yellow splotches surrounding the base of the toilet.  The areas that weren't splotched were coated in a thin coat of mud, almost as if someone had used a trowel to smooth a translucent layer of dirt-brown glaze over the ancient gray linoleum.  Scattered over the floor were of corn kernels, oats, and the odd soybean shell.  Lucy heard the old furnace turn on and watched the grains skitter across the floor as the hot water pipes rattled with the flow of water. 

          Pulling up her pants Lucy caught a waft of something dead.  It was not unusual for mice to make their way into the mudroom, especially as summer turned into fall.  As defense, Uncle usually left mouse bait around and a dead mouse or two in the mudroom was not an unusual event. Once, one of the rodents had crawled into her boot during it’s final moments.  Lucy still remembered the squishy feeling that met her stockinged toes as she pushed on the boot.  She never did wear that pair of socks again and she always made sure to shake her boots out before putting them on.

     Walking into the house, Lucy was met by the the smell of cooking dust that comes off radiators when the first chilly nights and frosty dawns prompt the first furnace use of the season.  This was one of the   smells of home, or at least the smell of home before someone had a chance to make coffee or start cooking dinner.  Oddly though, the air in the house was exceedingly dry.  Uncle was prone to nosebleeds so he tended to keep the air in the house well-humidified.  There were desk-sized humidifiers in the dining room and the main hallway upstairs. For what ever reason, Uncle must not have turned them on when he turned on the furnace.  Lucy’s eyes burned and lips chapped almost immediately due to the exceedingly hot and dry air in the house. 

     Yet underneath the smell of the dust burning on the radiators and the crackly-leaf smell of over-dried air, the smell of dead mouse continued.  This was a curious, new development.  In all the years she had lived in that house, she could not remember a single time when a mouse, dead or alive, had ever made it into the main house.

     Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she saw Uncle at the table, his arms folded across his chest, head bent down, asleep in the straight back chair.  Lucy stood in the doorway for a moment, quietly taking in her sleeping uncle. 

     The hair on the top of his head was the swirled,tangled mat that only comes from going to bed with wet hair, waking up, pulling a billed cap on over the uncombed hair, and spending the next five or six hours of the day sweating beneath the hat.  The hair below his hat-line was more or less presentable, though sun-bleached several shades lighter than the chestnut brown of the rest of his hair.  

     Uncle had pulled off the once bright, but now faded reddish-gray suspenders and let them dangle from his waistband of his work jeans.  Most of his blue chambray work shirt was faded almost to white, but there were criss-crossed stripes of fabric protected from the sun and the other elements that remained the the blue of an October sky. The paper, opened to the crossword, was spread out in front of him.  The pencil he had been using had fallen from his hand rolled under the table.

     So as not to startle Uncle awake, Lucy called out softly.  When he didn’t respond, she walked closer intending shake Uncle from his slumber. Only when she got closer did Lucy realize that Uncle’s form seemed puffed up and that he chest wasn’t moving. She tried to stop her feet from taking the next step and futilely attempted to keep her hand by her side as she realized the smell of death was stronger in this room. Intent on keeping its original mission Lucy’s hand reached out to shake Uncle awake only to topple his corpse off the chair.  His body hit the floor with a sodden thump, and the smell of death exploded into the room.

     Not one for hysterics, as Lucy’s legs collapsed beneath her, she opened her mouth and screamed until the dry air stole her voice away.

Carving the Watermelons

As a farm kid living in the city, I still have the need to play around in the dirt.  I like to spend time putting seeds in the ground and watching the plants grow into maturity.

This year I was going to be very organized about the gardening.  I had a spreadsheet...

...a file box...

...and gardening in Minnesota book

Yet, despite all the preparation, time came up short and the garden quickly fell into chaos.  I had hoped that by putting straw down around all my plants I could avoid some weeding.  And I will say, the straw did help keep the weeds down.  Of course, that just helped the oats sprout and grow that much better.

There were also the mystery plants coming out of the compost pile. That wasn't part of the plan. With its big broad leaves and spreading vines, it was easy to see it was some sort of squash or melon.

Personally, I don't spend a lot of time remembering all the vegetables and fruits that we throw into the compost pile.  Still, I was convinced I had a watermelon on my hands.  I was even rather excited about this.  I'd never grown a watermelon before. It's one of my favorite fruits.

The color and striping didn't seem quite right, but I figured it would just grow into it.  I also figured it was one of those little personal-sized watermelons and their coloring seemed somewhat different than a true watermelon.  I was pretty sure I had bought one of those for myself because somebody doesn't really care for watermelon; he doesn't not like it, but doesn't get all excited about it either. Yet even he was excited about the idea of a watermelon in our garden.

And so the garden grew.

We had jalapenos, 

soybeans for edamame,

cucumbers,

eggplant flowers*, 

tomato potential**,

and all sorts of tasty vegetables

And, now that Halloween is here, I spent the day carving some of my watermelons.  You'll have to let me know what you think.

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*which turned into eggplant parmesan


**Which turned into over 30 lbs of frozen tomatoes

My Garden Buddy

While out foraging in our garden, I noticed that something had been eating my parsley leaves.  Not the whole stem, just the leaf snipped off right where it joins the stem.

Admittedly my first reaction was one of continued exasperation and frustration.  I wouldn't say I'm the best gardener to begin with and this year seems to be especially challenging. Our Minnesota spring was cold and wet and that combined with a broken thumb made it difficult to get anything going in the garden.  Despite my spreadsheet and planning, our garden just didn't get planted in a timely manner.  Though now the entire garden has been fully planted and is now going crazy, there are still plants that aren't flourishing.  Sadly the crab grass, cottonwoods, and whole cast of unnamed weeds are growing much better than the beets, beans, and broccoli.

Full of ire, I looked into the parsley and saw this.

A big ol' caterpillar munching away.  Now, I'm not squeamish.  I think caterpillars are cool. So, I plucked that stem of parsley in order to look more closely at my new buddy.

I got really excited about it; my seconds earlier irritation forgetten.  I'd never seen such a brightly colored caterpillar.

It even does tricks.

Anyway, I posted some pictures of my new buddy to Facebook and a friend commented, "To see caterpillars is so rare anymore. Is it because we're not kids anymore or because they aren't as many of them?"

My first reaction is that we're not kids anymore. And we don't spend time outside exploring like we did as kids.  Mostly, as a kid, outside time was fun time.  Yes, maybe there was some yard work to help with, but in my world, outside time was free time.  Time to find adventures.  

As an adult though, I don't seem to find as many adventures outside.  The lawn needs mowing,  the garden needs weeding and watering, trees need trimming, and hedges need haircuts.  On an adventure it's important to keep your eyes open, your wits about you.  When doing mundane chores I think the tendency is to close off our senses in order to get through the day.

I have no idea whether there are fewer caterpillars than when we were kids.  I will say that my research led me to finding out my caterpillar should turn into a Black Swallowtail butterfly and they particularly like parsley.  So, I think part of finding caterpillars is having the right plants for the caterpillar.

Hopefully I'll see this

fluttering about my yard sometime soon.

And I challenge you to find an adventure in your next mundane task.  Who knows what you'll find.

The end of an era

When I was in first grade, we made model Space Shuttles from paper airplanes and toilet paper tubes in anticipation of a shuttle launch. Then, on the day of the first* lift off of the Space Shuttle Columbia, we had fresh popped popcorn** and watched the liftoff on TV. We sat in awe of the flame and smoke and space. We had another popcorn event when Columbia landed. And thus the amazement and grandeur of space travel filled the minds of the six and seven-year olds in small town Wisconsin. At that age, we didn't realize what it took to take a machine into the sky, we didn't realize it was an endeavor fraught with danger, we didn't realize that those brave men (for it was only men at that time) may never come down to earth.

Columbia's First Launch

Later on in elementary school we had actual astronauts visit us from NASA. The rumor (or perhaps truth) is that they thought they were going to Evansville, Indiana (pop. 125,000 or so in the early 1980s) which is much larger than Evansville, Wisconsin (pop. 3000 give or take). We learned what the letters in NASA stood for; we ate freeze dried ice cream; and we attempted to comprehend the size of the shuttle and the distance it would travel. Space was cool, the space shuttle was cool, and the astronauts were cool. They made the space program real.


In fifth grade our space reverie was shattered. While sitting in my desk (last row on the left, third seat from the front), waiting for the teacher to start a video an announcement was broadcast over the loudspeakers. I have no idea what was said, or even who made the announcement. I do remember our teacher foregoing the video and attempting to get a television signal so we could watch what was happening. It was the first time our generation was part of a national event. In that moment, we realized that even the good things in our lives, the things that made us hope for something more, could come to an end. I think it was the first time we experienced and understood that grief was something that an entire country could share.

The Challenger

In 2003, I turned on my computer to check my email (I'm not one to watch television). There, in one of the windows was an image of something exploding in the sky. My stomach sank, but my first thought was, "Oh, it's just something from the Challenger explosion." And then it wasn't. My stomach sank further than it had in a long time. The Columbia disaster seems to be dwarfed by the Challenger disaster before it, but in my mind, it is this later explosion that ended the romance of space travel. The Columbia was the first shuttle that went up. It is fixed in my mind as a time of amazement.

The final launch

Now the final shuttle mission is nearing the end.  The Atlantis will land and become a museum piece. Space travel will be turned over to commercial entities. No longer is the government the sponsor of (literally) out of this world ventures. That is what government should do, support the grandiose aspirations of the best and the brightest. Yes, there are plans for the next stage of space travel, but for those of who grew up with the shuttles, there's a bit of magic is gone. And that seems a little sad.


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*The first launch of the Space Shuttle Columbia was April 12, 1981 around 7:00am eastern. Which would have been long before school started for the day and when I was still in kindergarten. My memory is very distinctly of first grade and with Mrs. T. So, despite the fact my memory feels it was the first launch, it clearly must not have been. Looking at the launch time line I'm guessing it was more likely the third.


**My scent-track of elementary school is filled with the smell of air-popped popcorn served on industrial-grade brown paper towels.


Parts of this post have been culled from "My Columbia Eulogy," an email sent to my friends after the Columbia disaster, saved, recovered, and resent by JLH. Thanks.

Not too far from that tree, either

As much as I am my mother's daughter, I am also my father's daughter.

My dad and I share a love of word games: spoonerisms, puns, rhymes, and bad jokes. We share a temper that manifests itself in streams of incoherent cursing. We believe that placing cold things on the back of someone's neck is an amusing thing to do. We believe popcorn is best with butter and salt and in a big ol' orange bowl.

Whether it's because he's learned to live with my mom or that I'm so much like him, sometimes he knows how to read me and either put me in my place or what it takes to adjust my mood.

As a kid, I had a tendency to pout*. My dad is the one who taught me that birds have a tendency to poop on that out thrust lip. And what kid can not laugh in the present of a poop reference.

As a college student, home during Christmas, and struggling with what would become the start of a chronic run of clinical depression, my dad reminded me what the holiday season was really about. Not necessarily religion, but the transcendent feeling of watching kids playing in the snow, thrilled with the joy of living. Since that time, I've taught myself to look for the little joys around me. I'm not going to say it's easy and I'm not going to say it's the cure for depression, but I am going to say that finding the little joys makes surviving that much better.

As a bride, my father showed that he truly understands me and our relationship. When meeting with our officiant in preparation for the ceremony, we requested that the officiant not to ask for the bride to be given away. Yet, habits being habits, my dad walked me down the aisle and when we reached the officiant he asked "Who gives this bride away?" My dad, without missing a beat (and not knowing that I had asked not to be given away) said "No one. She comes here as her own person." Yep. He got it right. And then proceeded to call me "Baby girl" several times that day. For the first time in my memory.

How wonderful for a father to acknowledge his daughter's independence and dependence.

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*It's possible I haven't lost this tendency

Read, read, read

I've already told you I love books. I've recently had three experiences that have only served to reinforce books as a wonderful thing to love.

First, I'm participating in 1Book140 this month.  It's a monthly Twitter-based book club sponsored by The Atlantic magazine.  As of this week there are over 10,000 participants. The book chosen for this month is Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin, a book I've read several times before, but I realize now that it has neither been been recently, nor carefully.  This community of readers is teaching me to read more conscientiously.  And yet there are times I begrudge them for the same.   I find when I read with intent, I read word by word by word and appreciate the science of the text, but often lose the art.  When I read for pleasure, I turn off the analytical* side of my brain, read by phrases and become flooded with images. Though only black lines on a white background, novel text transports me to an ethereal and yet somehow completely tangible environment.

Then, earlier this week I met Beth in Mankato to attend the Traverse des Sioux Library System Storytellers series featuring Jennifer Weiner.   While waiting for the event to begin, Beth and I got caught up in a conversation with another attendee.  Among the three of us we were able to share stories of reading our favorite books and how the text we read became a part of our realities.  How reading a great book made us think about our own lives differently.  Also, we got to listen to Ms. Weiner speak and answer questions  - the author bringing us more in touch with her characters.

Which brings me to this article based on this study.  Though dated in December, I've only just seen it. Based on data analysis of 30 years worth of responses to the Interpersonal Reactivity Index, Sarah H. Konrath and her colleages have found that "almost 75 percent of students today rate themselves as less empathic than the average student 30 years ago." The article goes on to state that Americans have become more socially isolated and less likely to read fiction over than same period of time. "The number of adults who read literature for pleasure sank below 50 percent for the first time ever in the past 10 years, with the decrease occurring most sharply among college-age adults."

But humanity's saving grace may in fiction.  From Raymond A. Mar's article:

While frequent readers are often stereotyped as socially awkward, this may only be true of non-fiction readers and not readers of fiction.  Comprehending characters in a narrative fiction appears to parallel the comprehension of peers in the actual world, while the comprehension of expository non-fiction shares no such parallels...The tendency to become absorbed in a story also predicted empathy scores.

Who knew there was symbol for empathy? 

Many of us are reading information (non-fiction) from the time our cell phone alarms wake us in the morning till we take that one last look at the Google news before going to bed.  We have Twitter feeds, Facebook updates, work email, personal email, text messages, online magazines, news aggregation sites.  But stop and think with me for a moment, which made you better understand the experience of those living in Afghanistan over the last 30 years: the innumerable news articles we've seen or Khaled Hosseini's heartbreakingly beautiful novels, The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns?


Admittedly, there is a bit of self-selection here.  As someone who would rather read fiction than non-fiction, the idea that fiction could be emotionally and socially beneficial gives purpose to my favorite reading pastime.  But doesn't it also give purpose to us all, a medium to reach out and connect with those around us? A fuel to power the empathetic human experience.

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*Apparently the spell checker I use does not like analytical, wanting me to use analytic in it's place.  An internet search reveals they are synonyms with the "al" suffix being slightly more American.