Scout Moves

"Don't get used to it" is what I think Mike and Tiger were grumbling to me last night when I found them snuggled up on the couch together. They don't typically spend time together that doesn't involved biting and kicking and chasing. Tiger has a way of sauntering up to Mike and licking his head as if he likes him, but feigned affection is really just a prelude to biting his neck and goading him into fighting. Mike, being the bigger guy, will roll over, looking as if he's in the submissive position but knowing full well this is the best way to grab Tiger by the neck with his front paws while kicking him over and over again with his back paws. Tiger finds himself stuck in this position with his jaw bone clicking with each kick. This happens every single day. So, when I found them snoozing next to each other last night, I couldn't help but take a picture. I'm pretty sure this will never happen again. Eustacia thought it was adorable while No. 1 thought Ti

These are my foot prints made soon after I was born. I weighed 7 lbs.-5 oz., was 20 1/2 inches long and had a head circumference of 13 1/2 inches. Dr. McCoy Pitt officiated, but I suspect it was a nurse who inked my little toes. I found this certificate in the magical music cabinet, which is considerably smaller than my mother's cedar chest. Her trunk sits at the foot of her bed, and she keeps things like our baby shoes, some old photographs and tiny sweaters in it. There aren't many shoes left in it, though, because my father got a hold of some of them years ago during his electroplating phase. He set up what looked like a creepy science laboratory in the basement with a tank of acid and bottles of ooze which he used to bronze anything and everything. He electroplated baby shoes so people could keep them forever—sometimes they would be mounted separately on book ends or sometimes together on a stand with a commemorative plate. They looked like this when he was finished: In the

I don't wear my sister's shoes currently, although one sister has promised to ship a pair she bought for herself because they don't fit her. The title of this post refers to the name of a store I used to window-shop in front of in Chicago back in my penniless college days, and I think it was called My Sister's Shoes. It was on Division about a mile and a half from my dorm, and I would sometimes walk past it on my way home from the Jewel. I went to a college in the city for about a year and a half, and during the last few months, I was feeling antsy. It was summer school, and I was only attending in June and July because I couldn't stomach spending those months back home in Indiana where I had no friends and no job—nothing but WGN and Chips Ahoy and a lawn mower that was inevitably waiting for me in the garage. I had quit my job in the city in order to fit in as many summer school classes as a I could, and I was down to my last $200, most of which I had borrowed. Co

It's been quite a while since I have devoted an entire week to any one thing—search for tuna fish or mashed potatoes or toilets and you'll see what I mean. This week, then, is about shoes. I have heard of women of even modest income with dozens and dozens of pairs of shoes. I can see how that can happen because there are so many options these days. They come in so many different colors and heel heights and styles, so why not load up? I only have about two dozen, though, and some of those are old and haven't been worn in over a year. So, I'm thinking about buying a new pair, and I have two brands in mind. I usually look for Børns, but I am learning there are other options. I met an anti-consumerism guy not long ago, and he told me about Toms Shoes . For every pair you buy from Toms, the company donates a pair to a needy child. In 2006, they gave away 60,000 shoes to kids in Argentina and South Africa, and they hoped to give away 200,000 in 2008. I don't know if they

I'll let you read this anyway, if you want. Can you imagine watching Gone With the Wind in black and white? It was actually on Turner Classic Movies yesterday, so I watched it and was glad I had a color TV.

Baxter Black once wrote a poem about the plight of ranchers who were losing herds due to severe flooding along the Mississippi and Missouri. It was poignant and sympathetic, and it didn't rhyme. I remember sitting in my car in the parking lot of the grocery store when it was on the air (his stories are told on NPR), and I listened until he was finished describing the ranchers' sorrow, knowing they were unable to rescue the animals who relied on them for their care. But usually Baxter tends to be silly. Case in point: Back in my motorcycle/scooter days, I went on a ride with some seasoned bikers. They were much cooler than I was and had ridden for years, especially this guy who rode in sweat pants astride his massive white thing. It wasn't a Gold Wing, I don't think, but it was as big and had big, hard-side compartments. One of the other riders said he looked like he was riding a motorhome. We stopped for coffee and were all sitting at a big table when the guy in sweats

Yesterday, I spent my first morning helping the new girl in English class. I'll call her V because she might not want her real name blabbed all over blogville. We sat in a room alone, and I gave her a kind of test to see at what levels she understands the language and basic math skills. V understands plenty and was irritated by the simplicity of the questions in the test, but I assured her it was just a formality, and she would not be spending the rest of the school year writing out her address and sentences like "He is angry" and "They are happy." She did fairly well on the math portion, and I think her errors were due to not paying attention to the instructions. Isn't that always the way? While V took the test, I wrote out some questions for an upcoming interview, and I read the scribbling on the long table where we sat. These classes are held in the basement of a church, and we took the test in a room that is evidently used by the church's middle scho

Don't you? He's a cowboy poet, former larger-animal veterinarian and general philosopher. He doesn't own a TV or a cell phone, and he talks through a mustache most people would choke on.

One of my regular Internet stops is at Salon where Garrison Keillor writes a weekly column. Even if at first it seems to be about nothing, it is actually always about something, and that something is typically insightful. This week, he writes about obituaries and how we shouldn't bother living so that ours is significant because it's likely to be a big disappointment. You can read it here . I have a friend or two who have tried to write their obituaries in advance because they heard it was a cathartic experience—helps you take stock in yourself now, fix things that need fixing or take pride in things that are praise worthy before it's too late to do anything about it. I haven't tried to do that myself because I find it hard to think about my obituary without thinking of myself as being dead, and I'd rather not have that image in my head. I suppose someone will do a write-up with the usual stuff about where I lived and who I married and who has survived me. I'm n

I honestly don't have anything to say on the subject of privacy. I just love this picture. Eustacia took it over the weekend while she was experimenting with my camera. I don't have time to think of anything more interesting to offer you today because I am about to go volunteer for the English class this morning. I haven't been there much lately because I have either been too busy with work or not feeling well. Because the students bring their little kids for a separate learning program, they are always being reminded not to show up for class if someone is really sick. So, I thought it would be wise to follow the same advice and keep my distance. I'm feeling better today, though, so I'll read and giggle. We always seem to find something to laugh at in these reading exercises. I suspect the people who write them are easily bored and like to interject silly things just to spice up the day. When you're finished admiring the photo of Mike trying to take a bath in pe

Last night, Small Town high school's steel band gave its annual big-deal concert, Pantasia. I love this thing, not just because my kids were in it for years, but because it's so unusual. Who would expect to find a steel band in the middle of Ohio? It's here because one of the school's band directors graduated from the University of Akron, and the music department there has had a steel band program for years. It's this director's goal to teach her students that this instrument is a gift, and she goes so far to say that it and the music related to its history is inspired. And she wants to keep it from becoming a cartoon—that means no cheesy Hawiian shirts and no stupid Rasta hats with fake dreadlocks. I should add this teacher is one of my dearest friends. I had the privilege of covering the concert for Small Town Newspaper, so I spent some time reading up on the history of steel pans, and I spent some time talking to the professional steel drummer who was in town

Do you remember when I told you about this place, the pottery studio in town that is like a sanctuary and has the feel of being in another world? I went there last night with Eustacia and a few friends. Eustacia is home for the weekend because it's the weekend for Pantasia, the high school steel drum band's big concert. She was a part of the group for four years and wanted to be here for the concert. She's behaving like a 13th grader, she fears. Anyway, it's tradition on this weekend that I host a big hairy deal dinner for the band directors and the guest percussionist, Tom Miller, who comes here from San Francisco/Denver to conduct a three-day clinic and be part of the concert. This year we decided to do something different and go to the pottery studio for what the potter and his wife called the Empty Bowl Extravaganza. For one price, you select a unique soup bowl made by the potter, fill it with one of a selection of fresh soups made by a local baker, have some bread

My mind is mush today because I have been sickly all week—my mother calls it "puny." Does anyone else use that word for having something like a life-draining cold or whatever this is? So, instead of a real post, I'll point you to this thing in the newspaper. There is an interesting comment at the end about how France subsidises their newspapers because they believe a varied source of opinions presented to the public is essential to a democracy. I wonder if that's true, and I wonder if the French government manages to help financially without trying to control the content. Speaking of defending newspapers, a lot of people think they should die or at least become strictly online news sources because of all the trees we're destroying to print them. I'd just like to point out that in the US, 30 to 35% of newsprint is made of recycled pulp, and the end results are recycled into all sorts of things—beads, cereal boxes, egg cartons, insulation, tissue paper, grocery

When Eustacia was a baby, she slept in a Jenny Lind crib, but I never thought to investigate who this Jenny Lind was. Now I know. Last week I interviewed this elderly couple—retired missionaries—who refurbish antique trunks. They find crappy looking trunks at flea markets and auctions, and they sort through what's junk and what's worth saving. Given their skills, they can save just about anything, but Jenny Lind trunks are their favorite, and that led me to read further. Jenny Lind was a famous opera singer in the mid-1800s. She was from Stockholm and sang all over Europe. Mendelssohn was one of her biggest fans and wrote with her in mind, even the final high note in Elijah, oddly enough. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't have a little crush on the girl. Dive probably knows all about this, but Lind discovered Norwich, England and loved it so much that she gave concerts there a lot and donated some of the ticket proceeds to local charities. The children's wing in

Last December I posted a story or two about the local Latin stores in town, and I showed you a picture of the baby of one of the Guatemalan immigrants I met during the interviews. The mother is a young woman who lives with her parents who run one of the stores. She goes to high school during the day and returns to the store in the afternoon where her husband and baby daughter are waiting for her, where her parents need her to help with the store and help translate should a fast-speaking American like myself coming barging in and asking all kinds of silly questions. The girl can speak English, Spanish, and Q'eqchi' (her mother's native language) all in one sentence if she needs to. The parents were so proud of their daughter because she is the first person in the family to attend high school. In the more remote areas of Guatemala, schools are difficult to get to—of course there is no bus service and there are no enforced laws keeping kids in school up to a certain age. You&

Can you tell I'm a big fan of ICanHasCheezburger? My orchestra conductor looks nothing like this little guy, but he did ask for more volume from the string section from time to time this past weekend. We performed Mendelssohn's Elijah with a community chorus and a handful of soloists, and even though the audience was not as full as I would have liked, they seemed to really appreciate the concert. As always, it was a treat to perform with the orchestra even though the horn section wasn't the focus. We did what we could to make ourselves known. I've mentioned this before, but when I first started playing with the group back when I was a complete novice, I would judge my personal performance with percentages. At the end of a concert, I would evaluate my playing and say, "well, at least I played 68% of the thing correctly." Sometimes I would be able to give myself an 80% rating or even a 90%. I'm not sure how I would judge my playing this time around—I could h

Small Town newspaper has been fiddling with its comics page. As an experiment, and pending syndication negotiations, it printed a few days with a different set of comics than usual and fewer of them. And their test run caused a fire storm of complaints. A woman I know who tends to see only the worst in every situation stopped me the other day to ask if I had seen what They had done to the comics. How sad, she thought. There were only six or so, and she didn't recognize a single one. She was sure dozens of people would be canceling their subscriptions because of it. I know money is tight, and the more subscriptions the better no matter what idiot signs up, but if someone is going to cancel because they can't read Frank and Ernest every day, I'm inclined to say good riddance. I have that luxury because it isn't my job to sell papers. Anyway, after a few days of the test page, the newspaper went back to their regular page, sort of, and they printed a story about their reas

Outdoor thermometers around Small Town are reading -4˚. That's MINUS 4. And that isn't because of wind making the air feel colder than it really is. It really is that cold. Weather.com, a place where I spend time every day because I obsess about the weather, predicts it won't get much warmer throughout the day, maybe as high as 18˚. It will be 48˚ on Saturday, though. That can't be good for people, this up and down fluctuation in temperature. When I was a kid, old timers always complained about this kind of instability, blaming it for colds and flue. I don't know about that. It has to get cold enough and stay cold long enough to kill all the bad germs out there, they would say. I don't know about that either. And I don't know if going outside in winter with wet hair can make you sick. I suspect that's not true. The people who told me these things are same the same people who relied on their ideas—wives' tales—for all sorts of things. Babies get runny

The English-as-a-second-language class I volunteer with had a fiesta last night. The program is part of Even Start, a learning program, and they joined up with Head Start, another learning group, for their annual shindig. There are really two groups of people within the programs—the Hispanics who work their tails off to learn English, and the Americans who dropped out of school and now have to get back into it. Sometimes the Americans are there by court order to avoid jail time or to keep their kids, so they are often more likely to have an attitude and less likely to apply themselves. Either way, everyone showed up, and the party room was filled with 225 people plus staff and volunteers. Mexican restaurants from all over donated the food, and this Puerto Rican couple I have come to love made dessert. The woman, Suhey, was a professional baker back home, so she made flan for 100 people and this adorable almond cake that is tradition for Puerto Rican parties. Her husband, José, is one h

For the last few days, I've been typesetting an Amish cookbook which has put me off of Amish food for life, I'm afraid, not that I was a big fan before. But I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about Elvis. Years ago, I edited a bed and breakfast directory by a publisher who also did fun things like anthologies of the Andy Griffith Show and the kinds of books you'd find in the gift shop at Cracker Barrel. I got paid in real money, but they also sent me a book as a gift—Fit For A King; The Elvis Presley Cookbook. After "thank you," my second response was "ew." All I knew about Elvis was his love for fat and slop, hollowing out a loaf of bread and stuffing it with icky things. But this cookbook isn't all bad. It's full of the food I grew up with, being southern. It's got recipes for barbecue, fried chicken, fried okra and sweet potato pie. And it's got bananas—banana bread, banana shakes, banana cream pie, banana muffins, ban

I have been taking my iPod to the Y so I don't poop out after walking just five minutes. I've learned that if I have something to listen to other than the ramblings of old men on treadmills, then I am more likely to stick with the program—20 minutes around the track. Last week I listened to the Decemberists: Take up your arms Sons and daughters We will arise from the bunkers By land, by sea, by dirigible We'll leave our tracks untraceable now When we arrive Sons and daughters We'll make our homes on the water We'll build our walls aluminum We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon now And I listened to the Weepies: Dating a porn star, it isn't all roses She leaves you home on a Saturday night You can go crazy with thoughts and supposes Lose the thin thread between what's wrong and right So Starlight won't you kiss me For I have missed you so Just like the others And all of their brothers I've come to see the show But this morning I decided to choose a