I wrote this yesterday: Spring

I was awoken this morning by a blast of thunder that echoed through my bedroom in such a way that it sounded like there was a car crash in front of my house. It launched me out of bed, fortunitely, because my alarm was not set. Standing there without my glasses on, I couldn't really tell what was happening outside, other than it was gray. My glasses made me realize it was raining.

Thankfully, the coffee pot started when it was supposed to, and I stumbled out to the kitchen and poured myself a fine cup of Jamican Mountain Blue. I received a pound of that and a pound of another type of coffee from a coworker and her husband for my birthday, and I'll admit, it beats the living hell out of Folger's in the morning. I filled my cup after throwing a few slices of bread into the toaster, then, took my breakfast into the living room to listen to the news and check the cork.

Typically, I don't log on while there is an active storm, but, I needed to check some info for school today. As I booted up, I heard a tapping on the deck, and watched as marble sized hail fell for about three or four minutes.

It's been warm lately, warm enough so the snow pack is disappearing much faster than I thought it would. Is it just me, or is time accelerating as I'm getting older? March shouldn't almost be over. It seems like the New Year was just last week or the week before. I watched it hail as I sipped my coffee, thinking that it's almost sad that winter is over and spring has jumped into the fray.

Today is one of the days I teach on my sister campus, and I just got into my office. I'm supposed to have a student here now to take a test, but, he hasn't shown. I'll give him another ten minutes before I write him off for today. That's another story all together, however.

On the way up here, I marveled at the difference a week makes. Last week, the snow pack was heavy, pressing the canary grass to the ground and quilting the fields in white and translucent blues. But, today, the black soil is erupting, and some fields are awash in a sea of run-off water. Snow sets like ancient atolls on the oceans, decaying over time back into the cycle of life.

And death.

The ditches along the county roads I travel were flush with snow, and now, water rushes through, following the pull of gravity. Searching for the lower ground. Seeking the streams and creeks and rivers, until it finds its way to the bitch river that bursts out of her banks way too often. Luckily, we're not in much of a threat this spring, not unless we get a lot of rain in the next few weeks, but the river will rise soon. Already, upstream in Wapehton and Fargo they're discussing the degree of expected flooding, and the Minnesota govenor is flying over the valley of the Red River of the North to see what was once Lake Agassi.

Spring. Death turning towards life. Ewes giving birth to lambs. Does to fawns. Seeds to flowers and grasses and all other things green. And hopefully...to thoughts of peace.

Trying something new

For as long as I've been teaching, I've required a project of some sort in my classes. I have had students doing portfolios, poster presentations, and group presentations for a few years now, but this semester, I decided to add the option of a service learning project in my Intro to Psych class.

It's one of the next big things in higher ed...along with the idea of lifelong learning, active learning, and distance learning. I typically am skeptical of those damn buzzword movements, but, decided to give my students a chance at something new this time around.

So...each student in my Intro class had the option of doing a portfolio (basically, three short papers with up to three graded rewrite chances) or the SLP. The SLP requires 24 hours of service over the course of the semester, with written reflections due after every 6 hours. I have about a 50/50 split in the class, and, was finding a bit of hesitation with the people doing the SLP actually getting out and doing the work.

So, right before Spring Break, I reminded the students that were doing the SLP about their obligations, and I finally received the first reflections last week.

And I just finished reading them.

Three students just aren't getting it. One decided to do all of her service during Spring Break. I'll be speaking with her about that. Another did two hours and quit where she was at because she "couldn't connect with the people." (I also heard through the gradevine that it caused her to be separated from her boyfriend who was doing his own SLP and having MUCH more fun.) Another student felt that I had no right to infringe upon her free time like that. I'll be talking with her, too.

But...I also have three students who get it! Reading their reflections was extremely interesting, especially because I can see that even after just a few hours of work, they understand the impact they're having -- and -- they realize they are being effected as well!

The remainder...well...they're somewhere in the middle. And, I think at least one might be falsified. I'm going to call the place he's been working at to see if he has actually showed up.

All in all...I do believe I'll be doing this again!

Spam mail topic lines

I love looking through my SPAM folder. I love looking for the found poetry that you can find in the topic lines. Sure, there are a lot of them that deal with the size of my penis, places to get cheap Viagra, and the ability to get a second mortgage for my house.

Well...

I'm happy with my penis size (even if the girls don't become envious). Haven't had any problems with getting an erection (like you really wanted to know that, right, Kelli?). And, hell, I rent.

Yesterday, I opened my SPAM folder, and I saw what has to be one of the best, and yet, most disturbing lines.

Paul could smell frying skin, burning fat. excuse me I'd like She folded the towel bas as he...

With a little reworking, I got this:

Paul could smell frying skin, buring fat. "Excuse me, I'd like her," she said.

I don't know why, but it just seemed like wickedly fun statement. It...tickles me immensely. Perhaps I have a bit of cannibal hidden deep inside me.

Unhip as hell and like it that way

I just had to return a call to a student who is missing class today. Typically, I don't return such calls since it is stated on my syllabus that if they miss class, it's their responsibility to find out what they missed, but, I had a moment of weakness.

First, it's a long distance call, which means I have to dig up my long distance access number. Then, my phone decides to give me fits -- I have one dead number and two that are on life support. When I push those numbers, they either connect only half the time, or, don't connect at all. So, I find out who I need to see to swap out phones, go get the new one, and then, call the student.

And get her voice mail.

I can't understand half of it because she's talking like she has a sack of marbles in her mouth. The parts I can understand are filled with hip hop slang, which just doesn't fit this chick's persona. I don't know if she is actually a person that lives that lifestyle, or if she's just trying to be funny.

The thing that really got to me, though, was her sign off. Yup, the good ol' "peace out."

Does anyone even say that anymore? I mean, hell, I know I'm unhip as hell, but, shit, even I know that term is off the radar! Yo!

Huey Lewis might be hip to be square, but, I'm just unhip as hell and I'll live that way happily.

Touch 'em all, Kirby Puckett!

He gave me hope. He showed me that you don't have to be a cookie cutter of everyone else to excel. He lead by example, and was always an ambassador of the game.

I've been a Twins fan as long as I can remember. I went to my first game when I was three with my Grampa Bowen. We watched as Harmon Killibrew parked one out of the old Met Stadium that day, and I watched as Rod Carew stole second and third on consecutive pitches. And Tony Oliva...such a sweet, sweet swing.

I was hooked.

I even cheered the Twins in the late 70's when there were basically a farm team for the Yankees (fuck you, Steinbrenner).

But, then, there was 80's. Herbie and Kirby and Gaetti and Gagne and Chili and Dan "The Man" Gladden and Sweet Music Frankie Viola...watching as they came together and started putting their magic together...

I use to love hearing the announcer say "Up to bat for the Minnesota Twins, Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirby Puckett!"

1987 was my last year in the Corps. I was on the way home that September night when the Twins clinched the division, hearing the news in a motel in West Layfette, Indiana. Then...watching the team beat the Cards in seven games in the two weeks after Mom died. They were a welcome distraction for the family after losing Mom.

Kirby was my favorite. Watching those legs pump, coil, and leap, stealing homeruns the way Torii Hunter does now. He was an everyman with a boyish smile.

I got to meet him one year on the Twin's Caravan; an event where they travel around Minnesota and the surronding areas, giving back to the fans. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed watching him, and he was very modest as he said 'thank you.'

I remember one interview he gave where, when asked what he was going to do after he retired, and he said that he wanted to move back to Chicago and open a custom car wash.

Part of me believes he was serious. Another part of me says...well...he was funnin' all of us.

Touch 'em all, Kirby, touch 'em all.