To the Wolves

Several years ago a friend of mine was reading My Antonia for a class and asked me if I knew the story. "Not really," I shrugged. "I've never read anything by Willa Cather."

"It's pretty intense," she told me. I looked at her skeptically, perhaps even rolled my eyes. "There are these wolves..." she said and then recounted how in order to save themselves, the brothers, Peter and Pavel, throw the bride and groom off the wedding sleigh they are driving. "What else could they do?" she finished. "They wanted to survive."

"Remind me never to go sledding in Russia with you," I joked, but I've never forgotten that conversation. Later on, when I'd read the novel for myself, I found that the determination to survive and the plight of the outsider are two of its essential themes, and I might say that those same ideas preoccupy my friend.

A strong mistrust of both the structure and infrastructure of our society have motivated her and her family to be as self-sufficient as they can. They don't live off the grid, but they probably could. They have a lot of time and resources invested in being prepared in the event of disaster. We kid them about it, but when we do, it's clear that if anything catastrophic were to happen, the rest of us would be on our own.

Sometimes I worry about my friend and her pervasive pessimism. Whether or not Peter and Pavel were justified in what they did, they lived the remainder of their lives as outcasts-- no one could blame them, but no one could forgive them either. They survived, but was it worth it?

A Bargain

One of the best road trips I've ever taken was with my mom. She lives in Minneapolis and had business in Rapid City, South Dakota, so one late summer morning we set off, beginning our nine hour journey in the green green farm land of southern Minnesota, and continuing over the Red and Missouri Rivers, enjoying lovely vistas and delicious homemade pie. We made a stop in Mitchell, SD, to visit the Corn Palace, and I bought a paperback copy of O! Pioneers in the gift shop. We traveled across the great plains then, my mother driving and I reading aloud Willa Cather's story of hope and despair and struggle and loss, which was set in the very land, so harsh and so opportune, that we were crossing. A more intense and wonderful travel experience I have not had, and I will remember it always. Because the novel is in the public domain it was only a dollar--definitely one of the best purchases I have ever made.

Something New

If you missed the piece on Pecha-Kucha on All Things Considered tonight, consider taking a listen. Sort of the haiku of powerpoint presentations, this new form of communication is defined by 20 slides of 20 seconds each, no more and no less. That's right-- six minutes and 40 seconds is what you get to make your point.

It seems that beyond the pragmatic applications, this format is catching on as the salon of the 21st century. In cities all over the world people are gathering to socialize and enjoy a variety of these presentations, both in selected and open-mic formats. Such events are even being used as fund raisers, most recently to benefit earth quake victims in Haiti.

Oh the possibilities! The focused integration of images, sounds and text makes me really appreciate this concept... both as a teacher of communication and as the victim of countless dreary slide shows.

Alert!

I've had a couple of authors comment on this blog after I mentioned them and their books by name. In both cases I was completely thrilled that these posts I send out into the Universe with perhaps equal parts faith and vanity found not only a reader beyond my immediate family and friends, but also another writer with whose work I had connected.

I suspect that the fine hand of Google Alerts or a similar tool is behind their readership, but that does not lessen the experience for me. I have a couple of alerts of my own out there. One is for Nancie Atwell; I believe she's a bellwether for the state of language arts instruction, and I want to know what people are saying about her theories and practice. Over the last couple of years this alert has led me to some very interesting teacher-written blogs.

The other is for the Barbara Jordan school in Detroit. Early last summer I read that this school was being taken over by a committee of teachers and I've tried to follow their progress, because another of my beliefs is that for schools to be most effective, everyone in charge should teach at least one class (including central office).

After my last close encounter with an author I decided to double my Google Alerts. In addition to those two, my new settings include my own name, first and last, which I never expect to be mentioned, and the name of this blog, Walking the Dog, from which I expect to get several unrelated hits every day. I think it will be amusing, at least for a while, and especially if today is any indication-- I've already found a theme song: Walking the Dog by Fun.

Or not.

She Sighs With Relief

Today was one of those Mondays that I expected I would have to grit my teeth and tough it through. The lesson that I planned before leaving on Friday had just seemed a little off, and as I've noted before, the kids this year are just a little high maintenance. So how surprised was I when every class proceeded quite smoothly with nary a blank stare? It seems like the students are finally settling into a routine, and our daily practice and expectations are finally becoming a common language. Fingers crossed for tomorrow...

Meet the McGees

Once, a long time ago, I opened the door to let my cat in for dinner and he deposited a live white mouse on the doormat before hurrying off to eat his Fancy Feast. We spent some time speculating about where our cat had been-- had he raided a science lab? stolen someone's pet? saved the little rodent from becoming snake food? --but neither the cat nor the mouse was talking.

The mouse was completely unharmed but clearly unfit for outdoor life, so we did what any other nutty animal lovers would do. We got a tank and some cedar shavings and kept him as our pet. We had another cat named Molly at the time, and she was fascinated by him, spent hours watching his tank (we called it MTV, mouse TV), and so we named him Fibber. Soon we began saying that all of our pets had the last name of McGee: they were Molly, Fibber, Oliver, Noah, and Silly McGee. When we rescued a betta fish from a floral arrangement at a party a few months later, we named him Bobby and he fit right in.

The McGees are all long gone now, gone the way of so many beloved pets, but they are not forgotten. Tonight I heard that the Philippines is bracing for Typhoon McGee; at least that's what it sounded like on the radio. McGee seemed like a strange name for a Pacific storm, so I looked it up and found that it was actually "Megi," which by some accounts means catfish. That works, but Typhoon could have been a great name for a canary or maybe even an iguana, too.

Free Range Yeast

A couple of weeks ago I heard a piece on the radio about a more traditional approach to cooking, one that focuses on technique rather than exact recipes. Ken Albala, history professor and co-author of The Lost Art of Real Cooking described for example, how easy it is to make bread without using store-bought yeast. It seems that flour and water stirred together and left alone will attract the wild yeast that reside everywhere. Who could resist the temptation to put such a premise to the test?

So last weekend I whisked together my starter. Albala also mentioned that the powdery substance on the outside of fresh grapes is none other than yeast (who knew?), so I tossed a few seedless reds into the mixture and pushed it to the back corner of the counter. As recommended, every morning I fed it some more flour and water to prevent the alcohol from overwhelming the growing yeast population. My brew bubbled and foamed, and this morning I kneaded in some more flour and water with a pinch of salt, still finding it hard to have faith that the dense dough would rise without that little yellow packet of Fleischmanns.

This evening I can report success! I wrangled that wild yeast into the prettiest little loaf of bread around. It had a crisp crust outside, a moist, chewy texture inside, and it was delicious.

And in just a couple of weeks my saurkraut will be ready, too.