The Monastery

I'm in the process of planning our spring trip to Zanzibar (along with the excellent Steve Wehmeyer) and I came across this picture of the crew that we took to Jordan last year.  Who knew I'd be so ready, willing and (somewhat) able to do it again.  Here we are, with the exception of Cyndi Brandenburg who was on the other side of the camera, standing in front of the Monastery at Petra.

Left to right: Lian, Andy, Taylor, Mike, me, Keebee, Devin, Libby, Emma, David

Jack and Julie

I just wanted to post this picture of two of my oldest friend, Jack and Julie Schultz.  I shamelessly swiped this off Facebook.  It's a picture of them at their 30th anniversary (I think).  Amazingly, Brenda and I got them together when we all lived in Cincinnati.  Truthfully, we didn't think they would have anything in common, and we weren't trying to hook them up.  They had gone to IU at the same time but, not surprisingly, had never met. We were just looking for someone to play Trivial Pursuit.  And here they are all these years later, still happy and with two beautiful, successful daughters.  Jack is also my oldest friend, stretching back over forty years.  He was the first person I met my age who I thought was both really smart and also possessed a wicked sense of humor.  Along with Dave Kelley and Mike Kelly, Jack and I are supposed to embark on a Lucinda Williams-themed tour of the South.  We can't put it off too much longer or we'll (well, I'll) be too old.

Still together, and to think, I had to explain to her what the term "brown the meat" meant in a recipe I gave her.

My Year With Proust - Day 3

"My sole consolation when I went upstairs for the night was that Mamma would come in and kiss me after I was in bed.  But this good night lasted for so short a time: she went down again so soon that the moment in which I heard her climb the stairs, and then caught the sound of her garden dress of blue muslin, from which hung little tassels of plaited straw, rustling along the double-doored corridor, was for me a moment of the keenest sorrow.  So much did I love that good night that I reached the stage of hoping that it would come as late as possible, so as to prolong the time of respite during which Mamma would not yet have appeared.  Sometimes when, after kissing me, she opened the door to go, I longed to call her back, to say to her 'Kiss me just once again,' but I knew that then she would at once look displeased, for the concession which she made to my wretchedness and agitation in coming up to me with this kiss of peace always annoyed my father, who thought such ceremonies absurd, and she would have liked to try and induce me to outgrow the need, the custom of having her there at all, which was a very different thing from letting the custom grow up of my asking her for an additional kiss when she was already crossing the threshold.  And to see her look displeased destroyed all the sense of tranquility she had brought me a moment before, when she bent her loving face down over my bed, and held it out to me like a Host, for an act of Communion in which my lips might drink deeply the sense of her real presence, and with it the power to sleep."

Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, p. 13

I've included this section for a couple reasons.  First off, it is beautifully written, and I think the image of his mother's face hovering above him as a Host in an act of Communion is the first line, at least to me, that promises more beautiful passages to follow. Several people, including writers I really respect, view Remembrance of Things Past as the greatest novel of all time, and this particular image is the first that hints at transcendence to come.

The second reason is more personal, which I guess is the point of this entire experiment. When I separated from my first wife I went through the traditional six free sessions of therapy, which took a lot for me to do - and was about the best proof you'd ever need to what a fragile state that I was in at the time.  It's not that I don't see any value in psychology or therapy, but rather that I was raised in a very traditional way, and asking for help of any kind was branded into me as a true sign of weakness. And, truthfully, it's something I haven't gotten over yet.  Even today it's very difficult for me to ask for any help doing anything.  I don't know if I got too much out of my six sessions, although they did make me feel better.  Often I would say something and the therapist would lighten up and say something like, "wow, that's really perceptive."  Of course, that may be the best evidence that she was doing her job.  The one thing that she told me that did blow me away was that I was "starved for affection."  I had never thought of myself in that way, but it did make a lot of sense - and has always been in my mind, even if I didn't probably make much effective use of the fact.  I think I've struggle with some of my relationships with women because I both desperately needed affection and attention, but yet somehow remained pretty certain that I didn't deserve it.  And to receive that level of affection and attention I had to be "there" in a way that I probably wasn't (see the first two installments on Proust).

Now, why am I starved for affection?  Still working on that one.  It's way too easy to blame your personal shortcomings on your parents.  I think the attention. and in some sense affection, from my parents was very accomplishment-based, but I think their approach to parenting was very representative of their generation.  I've never considered them cold people.  Plus, if you've been fortunate to have traveled as much of the world as I have it's hard to take your own problems as having much merit.  This is why the hashtag #firstworldproblems was created.  I never missed any meals and I had the opportunity to pursue my Ph.D. I don't have any complaints.  So, then the reason for feeling that I was starved for affection is probably internal.  Like I said, I'm still working on that one.

The Best Going Away Present Ever

As I'll probably recount in way too many posts, my great friends Andy Burkhardt and his wife Heidi have left us to move to Michigan.  Heidi started working at the University of Michigan and moved earlier in the fall, and Andy finally followed her a couple days ago.  As a beloved friend - and generally loony character - Andy inspired several going away parties. One of the soirees was hosted by Sandy and Debbie Zale (more on that later) and I was considering what going away gift to get him.  Now, to be fair, I had already purchased them a copy of Basho's The Narrow Road to the Deep North, which, despite being a wonderful collection of haiku poetry that also serves as a travelogue, it seemed to fit the move to the Great Northern Mitten that is Michigan.  And, yes, clearly this speaks to how cool I am.  In this case I decided to head up across the border into Canada and bring back some TimBits, which are the Tim Horton's equivalent of donut holes.  TimBits are filled with Canadian goodness, and are clearly much better than anything one could get at Dunkin' Donuts. I drafted Mike Lange for the journey, and he was only too willing.  On our journeys up to Montreal Alouettes games we made it a tradition to stop at Tim Horton's, usually on the way up and after the game.

Considering the number of tragic terrorist attacks lately we were somewhat concerned with the prospect of getting back into the US, especially since the "we just drove up here to get donuts for a friend's going away party" sounds suspicious, even to me.  We weren't really concerned with crossing into Canada.  As I imagine filming the scene it would go something like this:

Canadian border guard: [friendly, as they always are] "What's the purpose of your trip?"

Me: [pausing, then laughing] "Driving up to the closest Tim Horton's to get some TimBits for a going away party for our friend."

Canadian border guard: [friendly, as they always are] "So, your friend really likes Tim Horton's?"

Me: [relieved] "Who doesn't?"

Canadian border guard:  [friendly, initially, as they always are - until he starts flipping through my passport, and then suddenly his smile fades as he gets to all the Arab stamps in my passport, and the kiss of death Yemen visa] "Are bringing anything into the country . . ."

Which, of course, led to many questions and the car being pulled over and searched, albeit quickly - and the guard was always friendly.  It did make us even more concerned about getting back across the border.

We tracked down what we are pretty certain is the southern most Tim Horton's, which is in Saint Jean Sur Richelieu off the first exit once you get onto the new section of 35. We bought a box of 50 TimBits for Andy and a box of 10 to give to my son - and, of course, we each had a box of 10, because this was exhausting work.

Fast forward to the border, this time heading south.

American border guard: [friendly, although not as friendly as the Canadian border guards, and certainly less routinely friendly] "What was the purpose of your trip into Canada?"

Me: [with due sense of dread] "To bring back some Tim Horton's Tim Bits for a going away present for a friend." [preparing for the inevitable cavity search]

American border guard: "How many did you bring back?"

Me: [clearly not completely understanding the question, either because I was nervous or simply because I'm hard of hearing] 60.

American border guard: [raising his voice, although more from surprise/amazement than anger] "You brought back 60 dozen donuts?"

Me: [laughing, despite the inevitability of the cavity search] "Oh, god, no.  A box of 50 TimBits and another box of 10 TimBits.  Even I couldn't eat 60 dozen donuts."

American border guard: [friendly, as is their wont] "I would hope not.  Have a great day."

It left Mike and I feeling like we had clearly gotten away with something, until about a mile south of the border when it occurred to us that he must have thought that we clearly looked like two very large Americans who would drive across the border solely to eat donuts.  I think he was being sizist, and we both felt oppressed and calorically profiled.

In the end Andy loved his gift and it was well worth the trouble, and we'll be back.

Mike has determined that the southern most Tim Horton's is only fifteen minutes away (which sounds like my logic) and thus we plan on driving up there around once a month for coffee and Tim Bits. I suspect it's actually something like 20 minutes once you get past the border, but I'm not going to argue against going to Tim Horton's.

My Year With Proust - Day 2

"But I cannot express the discomfort I felt at such an intrusion of mystery and beauty into a room which I had succeeded in filling with my own personality until I thought no more of the room than of myself.  The anaesthetic effect of custom being destroyed, I would begin to think and to feel very melancholy things."

Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, p. 10

I wonder if I've ever had a room that I filled so clearly with my own personality that I thought no more of it than I did of myself.  Or, for that matter, have I ever had a relationship that I filled so clearly with my own personality that I thought no more of it than I did of myself.  My father has often opined that growing up I was never quite there.  On the one hand the combination of that, and the fact that I always did well in school, made me a pretty easy child to raise.  I remember when Brenda, Gary and I lived in Atlanta my Mom and Dad (obviously before they split) came to visit us in our apartment.  My Dad, and I'll give him credit for this, told me that it was only after the other kids that he realized what an easy kid I was to raise.  At the same time, however, I'm sure it made me a very frustrating child to raise because I was always someplace else intellectually and emotionally.

Maybe this was why I wasn't such a great husband.  Maybe I was never truly there for Brenda, just as I wasn't there for my Mom and Dad and siblings.  Why wasn't I there?  I don't think I was ever cruel, just not there as I should have been.  I've often told my son that if I had to do it over again I would have fought with his mother instead of just withdrawing and trying to make it work.  Did I not fight because I cared too much or because I cared too little - or simply because I wasn't truly there.  It could well be that answering that question is the most important thing I need to figure out over the next year.  Laura had this habit (90% cute and 10% annoying) of shaking her hand in front of my face when I was reading. Doubtless, there's a metaphor there somewhere.

Milan Kundera, in one of my favorite novels, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, wrote "The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.  Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant.  What then shall we choose?  Weight or lightness?"

I remember talking to Jen about my apartment in Abu Dhabi, pointing out that I owned almost nothing; in fact, I had so little there that I could have walked away at any time and not given it a second thought. It was almost Graham Dalton's (the James Spader character from Sex, Lies and Videotape) one key philosophy - the notion that you should live your life in such a way that you only needed one key.  If you had to have a car then you could not have anything in your apartment that was so valuable that you had to lock the door, and if you did have something in your apartment valuable enough to warrant locking the door then you couldn't have a car.  She thought it sounded terrible, but to me at the time it sounded like perfection (to be fair, my close friend Cyndi Brandenburg also thought it sounded great). That said, in the end I didn't choose that life, and instead came back to Vermont to a life full of burdens.  So, in the end, I guess I chose weight over lightness. Now, in the end I have to figure out if weight equals presence.

And Another Semester Gone

Yes, the papers are graded and the grades are submitted and another semester is fading into the mists.  I can't believe that I've been doing this for over thirty years.  I gave my first lecture in the fall of 1982 when I was twenty-two, and then taught my first self-contained class in the summer of 1984 at the tender age of twenty-four. The end of every semester is a bit of a melancholy time for me.  I don't know whether it's the realization that I'm another semester closer to death, or maybe I do actually like these little knuckleheads and might theoretically miss them.

My friend and colleague John Stroup snapped this picture of me from his office window.  I'm stopping to give a couple of my students a hard time about something.  I don't normally dress so shabbily; it was the chili cook-off and since I was cooking Cincinnati chili I had to wear my ancient Reds sweatshirt.

The other day one of my colleagues was making a point about me stopping one of my students on campus and, in a good natured way, abusing them (the point being that my students know I care about them if I take time out of my busy schedule to heap foul scorn on them).  She paused and said, smiling, I guess I need to be more specific.

My Year With Proust - Day 1

"For a long time I used to go to bed early.  Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say 'I'm going to sleep.' And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which, I imagined, was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had been thinking all the time, while I was asleep, of what I had just been reading, but my thoughts had run into a channel of their own, until I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between Francois I and Charles V.  This impression would persist for some moments after I was awake; it did not disturb my mind, but it lay like scales upon my eyes and prevented them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. Then it would begin to seem unintelligible, as the thoughts of a former existence must be to a reincarnate spirit; the subject of my book would separate itself from me, leaving me free to choose whether I would form part of it or no; and at the same time my sight would return and I would be astonished to find myself in a state of darkness, pleasant and restful for the eyes, and even more, perhaps, for my mind, to which it appeared incomprehensible, without a cause, a matter dark indeed."

Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, p. 1

For some time now it seems that I've been in a state of darkness; not darkness as in a state of despair, but rather in a crepuscular world between waking and dreaming. Essentially, I think I've been floating, and not necessarily in a bad way, but definitely floating.  Maybe it's the realization that it's the close of another year, and this time of the season makes everyone reflective.  I also have another birthday closing in hard upon me, and at 56 it's the beginning of the close of my 50s. Certainly, it's indicative of one of my traditional problems, the inability to just be and to enjoy life. In a previous life a crazy British girl made it her quest to try and get me to just relax and live in the moment, and she was at least partially successful because I'm much better than I used to be (which was sort of like the Woody Allen character from Annie Hall who opined that if someone somewhere was having a bad time it ruined the whole thing for him [I'm paraphrasing, obviously]).  

Nevertheless, I'm definitely going through one of those Henderson the Rain King stretches where all I hear my heart saying is "I want I want I want."  Now, what do I want? Well, to start off with, I guess I need to start completing some of my goals.  I've been talking about my book on the epics for a few years now, and I'm devoting a lot more time to research and writing than ever before.  Still, I need to be more structured in my approach.  I'm never going to get it finished if I continue to approach it so haphazardly.  Similarly, although in a less specific but more profound way, I'm trying to sort out my feeling about Islam.  For a couple years now I've been brooding over the notion of converting.  Certainly the 50s seem like high time to get your relationship with the divine sorted out. I'll have more to say about this soon, doubtless. Faith has always come hard to me, although I'm a spiritual person in many ways.  This is probably another one of those instances where my authority issues have held me back.  I guess it's been a long quest to find the religion that works for me.  Once again, more on this later.

OK, so those are two pretty big topics, which transcend my professional and personal lives.  And here's another one, although it doesn't begin to measure up in seriousness.  For around a decade I've been talking about reading all of Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, and I'm finally going to tackle it.   I tried to interest several of my friends with the idea of reading it together and meeting once a week for coffee and discussion - and that went nowhere.  It may be the biggest factor that pushed Heidi Steiner-Burkhardt out of the state.  So, in the absence of a reading/discussion partner, I guess I'll use the blog to serve that purpose.  My goal is to finish all seven volumes that comprise the work and include daily or weekly commentary.  I thought about calling it My Summer With Proust, but realized that with my other projects I'd never get it all finished in a summer, so then it became a yearly project. I envision it as part reflection on Proust, but also part personal reflection. A matter dark indeed.  I have no idea where it is going, but I guess I'll just follow along - and maybe, just maybe, I might learn something about myself.

Gary and Margie

I just wanted to include a picture of my wonderful friends, Gary and Margie Beatrice.  Here they are dressed up as Gary was set to receive a much-deserved award for his contributions to the business community of Northern Kentucky.  It's been a tough year for them, and Gary is struggling with some health issues, but I know the coming months will be better ones.

They've been friends for years, and they always represented what I thought a couple should be, and I've always envied their relationship.  Great friends and great parents and great spouses.

Propitiatory Offerings

As all my students know, no one is allowed to come late into my class unless they bring some propitiatory offering to appease me.  Over the years they've been quite creative, and I'm pretty flexible - although, obviously, fruit is strictly forbidden.  Here's one that showed up today.

I like the fact that they included my name on the wrapper, mainly, I'm supposing, to keep their roommates from stealing the ready, and life-preserving, collection of treats.

Satans Kingdom

And more silliness during my son's visit.  On one beautiful day we decided to finally track down the elusive town of Satans Kingdom, Vermont.  If you pull out the Vermont Gazetteer - or check out the GPS on your phone - or just do a Google search, you will come up with the town of Satans Kingdom (interestingly, plural - as in many Satans - and not possessive; although, to be fair, that's a fairly common transition on road signs).  However, trying to locate Satans Kingdom, at least geographically, is much more challenging.  Gary's mother and I went searching for it years ago, but could never track it down.  If you head south on Vermont 7 and pass through Middlebury (and past, at least temporarily, the A&W Restaurant, but that's another post) you'll come to state road 53.  Take a left - go east - on 53 and you'll wind past beautiful Lake Dunmore and before you come to Fern Lake, the GPS will let you know that you're passing Satans Kingdom (although there are no signs - if there were ever signs I'm sure Middlebury University students swiped them eons ago).  There is a private driveway which we carefully (that is, quietly and timidly - we are talking about Satans Kingdom) wandered down, and then walked into the woods.  Apparently a large rock is Satans Kingdom - or, to make a better story, is sitting on top of Satans Kingdom - or, even better, is sealing/securing Satans Kingdom.  On the way out we ran into the local postman making rounds, and Gary, being my son, went up and asked him to clarify the exact location of Satans Kingdom.  The guy, who was unfailingly pleasant, rolled his eyes and said he's heard that so many times, but that it didn't exist now nor had it, in his opinion, ever existed.  Gary thanked him, but then leaned over to me and let me know that the guy was obviously a member of the local coven and was in on the conspiracy.  And that should have been the beginning of a very bad horror movie.  Instead we just drove off and went swimming and doubled back to A&W for cheese curds.  Clearly, more investigation is in order.

According to the GPS this rock is Satans Kingdom.  I challenged Gary to write up a screenplay to send to the SyFy Channel based on Satans Kingdom.  Finally, I'm sure most scripts for SyFy movies must take at least two hours to write, so I'm expecting to see something soon.

Mukawir

Life is very strange, as we all know.  I was taking a break from writing to devote some much-needed time to cleaning my desk.  Yes, I hate writing so much that cleaning seems like a good option by comparison.  I love researching and thinking about how projects might come together - spiriting out connections is one of my few intellectual gifts - but there comes a point where you have to stop reading and researching and burrowing down rabbit holes and actually have to write.  To be fair, I have written a lot this summer, and some of it is actually fairly interesting, but I'm still miles and miles away from this project coming together.  So, anyway, I was taking a welcome break from writing and found a years-old package from Bob Dash, who taught for years at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon.  I didn't know Bob that well, and spent exactly three weeks getting to know him years ago on my first trip to Jordan.  I was there on a State Department grant to study Islamic and Arabic culture, and was thrown together with twelve amazingly friendly professors in what was doubtless the best academic experience of my life.  At the beginning Bob seemed like more than a bit of a grouch, but he ended up being a great guy.  A couple years later he sent me a package with two CDs full of pictures, which, in the midst of the general chaos of my life, I never opened.  Later, in one of those odd inexplicable coincidence that only happen in Dickens novels and real life, I found out that Bob had died of cancer.  So, here I am today, and what do I find at the bottom of a drawer - about three offices later - but this original package.  In addition to bringing back a lot of great memories, it was also more than a bit of a gift.  it reminded me of a great time, and of a man that I wished I had gotten to know better.

A picture that I spirited from his collection, this of Mukawir.  I've always said that it was exactly at this moment - and at this spot - where I fell in love with the Middle East.

Touring the NEK

Oddly, my son assured me that he had never actually visited the Northeast King during the fifteen years we've lived in Vermont.  Of course, I don't believe him, but last Sunday we decided to take advantage of a beautiful day and head north.  We were positive that we were going to see moose along the way, but I'm always positive that I'm going to see a moose, and I never do.  We cruised around with no particular goal in mind, but ended up stop in Newport and spent a couple hours soaking up Lake Memphremagog.  We didn't see the famous lake monster Memphre - or maybe it's just an evil spirit (I forget) - but it was a lovely place just to relax.  We also took a run up to Derby Line.  In the happier pre 9/11 days you used to be able to walk through the library from one side of the border to the other, since the building was built square on top of it, but those days are long past - I still wanted to swing by and check it out, but it was last Sunday.  On the way back we stopped in Lowell, Vermont to grab a snack, which turned out to be a pleasant, if long-delayed, time.  Gary kept threatening to ask people where the baseball stadium was, pretending that the Lowell Spinners, a Red Sox minor league affiliate (from Lowell, Massachusetts), and long-time rival of the Lake Monsters, played in tiny Lowell, VT.  He's always causing mischief, which I'm sure he gets from his mother.

Lake Memphremagog.  We didn't pick up any evil vibes that day.

The Boy resting at the shore.

When Gary was much, much younger his nickname was Little G, but at a certain point he definitively stated that he didn't like the name, so he just became G, and I lost my nickname, and simply because Scudder.

One of my general rules of thumb is that you don't order food out of its natural boundaries, but we decided to visit Cajun's Snack Bar anyway.  We especially liked all the alligator signs.

Gary starting to fade.  The place was packed, which might explain why it took an hour to get hot dogs.

Still, they were good hot dogs.

Super Cyclone

One of the many interests that Gary and I have shared over the years - as we also always did with his mother - was the love of really bad movies.  I'd hate to think how many horrific science fiction and monster movies we've watched together, and that, of course, also explains our shared love of Mystery Science Theater 3000.  This visit we've had the opportunity to watch several movies together, both more legitimate ones at the Roxie downtown - Ant-Man (not bad for a Marvel Universe movie - pretty clever at times) and Mr. Holmes (excellent and highly recommended) - but also a couple real dogs we streamed on Netflix - Super Cyclone and Earth vs the Asteroid.  While we both really loved Mr. Holmes, and discussed it and the entire Holmes canon over coffee at Muddy Waters after the show, I think we had the best time laughing over the utter absurdity of Super Cyclone, which was one of those embarrassingly bad movies where the continuity errors are beyond belief (sort of like Plan 9 From Outer Space bad) - we're driving at night, during the day, during a storm, in the sunlight, fake rain is falling on the car - but somehow not getting rid of the dust on the car, and now it's dark again - and on and on and on.  Priceless.  Ming Na clearly had a student loan payment due when they approached her with that script.

Grabbing sushi at the co-op before the movie.  If we were with my excellent friend Cinse we'd have smuggled malted milk balls into the theater, but we weren't, and so no one did, nor has she ever done so - nor anyone else.

The Quarry

My son has been trying to get me to go with him for a swim at the quarry above Barre for over a decade.  Recently he passed through the state and, in addition to spending so much wonderful time with him, he finally dragged me up there.  We've had such a wonderful time, and doubtless the blog will be reflecting all of our adventures from the past week.  It's just makes me so happy to spend time with him.

And the requisite background information.  This is not the main quarry that you see when you initially climb up the hill above Barre, and I didn't even know it existed.  It's a beautiful walk up from Graniteville.

I don't think you're allowed to park at the base of the hill anymore - and it's easy to blow right past it.

If you climb to the top you can get a really pretty view looking down upon the main quarry, and the mountains in the background.

Yes, and on we trudge to Gondor.  Although the quarry is officially abandoned, although the trail is maintained, there are immense piles of granite (known as grout) which the local stone masons must use for practice.

Some of the works are pretty whimsical, and they pop out randomly, which adds to their charm.

And some are pretty fierce - obviously, I sent a picture of this one to my friend Andy Burkhardt.

And here is the upper quarry.  I do like this picture quite a bit, although I have typically, and clumsily, framed it - one of the classic signs of amateur and amateurish photographers.

I'm struggling with the blog today, and the pictures and popping up randomly and out or order, but I don't have the time or energy to keep fixing them.  Here's a lovely little cliff, and if you squint you can see my son at the top.  And, yes, we both did jump off from up there - him much more gracefully than me.

As part of my research I've been rereading James Fenimore Cooper's The Leatherstocking Tales, and for some reason this picture of my son reminds me of The Last of the Mohicans.

And a closeup of Gary on top of the cliff.  He jumped off a couple times with no trouble; his father much less successfully.  As might be expected, I lost my sense of balance flying down and managed a slap my leg pretty dramatically - and still have a lovely round six inch bruise to show for it.

And here's Hawkeye on top of the cliff looking at an even higher cliff.  He was endearingly protective of me.  Mainly he just wanted to spend some time with me and go for a swim.  We got to the edge of the cliff and he said, "You know, you don't really have to do this."

And here's the bigger cliff that the local kids just refer to as Death.  My son has actually seen someone jump from up there, but made it clear that he thought it was pretty insane.  We figured it had to be around seventy or so feet high, whereas our "little" leap was "only" around twenty-five.

I've written on this blog before that the Ryan Adams song This House is Not For Sale is my official song of my 50's.  This may be my official picture.

Hey Hey My My

There are times when I'm actually quite proud to live in this odd little place.  The other night, for only the second time in my life, I actually was able to see Neil Young in concert.  It was the first time since I saw him on a bizarre one man electric show during one of his experimental periods in the early 80s.  This was also, unbelievably, his first performance in Vermont in his long and unmatched career.  He seemed remarkably happy to be here, and a lot of this relates to the unabashedly liberal politics of the state and the fact that VT is leading the fight against GMO - hence the name of his album The Monsanto Years.  He gave $100,000 from the proceeds of the concert to back Vermont's legal fight.  In the end he is a man of principle, and that's odd in the today's world of media whores.

Here's a playlist, which I wanted to get down before it faded away.

After the Gold Rush
Heart of Gold
Long May Your Run
Old Man
Mother Earth (Natural Anthem)
Out On the Weekend
Unknown Legend
Only Love Can Break Your Heart
From Hank to Hendrix
Harvest Moon
Wolf Moon
Words
Looking' For A Love
Moonlight in Vermont
A Rock Star Bucks a Coffee Shop
People Want To Hear About Love
A New Day for Love
Country Home
Down By The River
Workin' Man
Monsanto Years
Love And Only Love

Random reflections.  The experience is still too unsettled and raw for the construction of a unified essay; plus, I"m taking time away from grading and my own research/writing, but maybe I'll revisit this later.

I got really emotional as soon as soon as he appeared on stage and started singing After The Gold Rush.  Yes, I cried.  Growing up out in the middle of nowhere in southern Indiana he meant everything to me.  It was having someone out there who completely got the sense of alienation, but also oddly hope, that I felt.  I've listened to songs like Helpless probably tens of thousands of times, and they still give me goosebumps.  To see him, for what may be the last time (neither of us are getting in younger) was practically overpowering.  I just feel that for years his music kept me focused.  I think my mom was afraid that I spent way too much time listening to depressing music, but it actually had exactly the opposite impact.  It taught me that its OK to be sad, and that sitting in the dark quietly reflecting on the absurdity and cruelty of life, is actually a very healthy thing; and that in the end it gives you a greater love and appreciation for the inherent beauty of life.

Young can still bring it.  He's 69, and spent three hours thrashing with Promise of the Real, and a bunch of guys who are thirty or forty years younger than him.  Their versions of Down By The River and Love and Only Love were incendiary.

Before the show Kelly and I were enjoying some fried dough when Daryl Hannah walked up and asked us questions about it, mainly whether ir was sweet or savory and how it was made.  The best part of the experience was that Kelly clearly had no idea who it was, and when I told her after Hannah walked away she initially didn't believe me.  I had one of those odd experiences where within about seven nano-seconds I had three contradictory experiences: shit, that's Daryl Hannah; wait, that can't be Daryl Hannah; oh, yeah, that makes perfect sense, it's Daryl Hannah.  My only regret is that I didn't offer her some of the fried dough.

I had a great time with the excellent Kelly Thomas.  She's quite the Neil Young fan herself, which I discovered a couple years ago and I left her in possession of some of my NY CDs when I took off for the UAE for a year.  I thought for a long time that she really detested me (as many people do, quite appropriately), but now we've become great friends.  She's a good, gentle soul.

He played several songs that I would not have bet a tired dime that he would actually play in concert.  I liked that he play Words (Between The Lines of Age).  It's a song which I love a lot more in its rough form (a couple of his albums replicate twenty minute versions where he is tinkering with it, which better displays the complexity of the song) as compared to the final polished version.  He also played Lookin' For A Love.  It's rare to hear a song off Zuma other than Cortez the Killer.

I actually sort of liked the new songs from the Monsanto Years album.  They're a bit preachy, but you have to admire the fact that at 69 he's still passionate about things and won't back down.

Doubtless, more later, but it was an amazing night.  It made me feel that at 55 I can still accomplish things, and that, to paraphrase a line from one of his new songs, it's a bad day for doing nothin'.

The excellent Kelly Thomas on the way to get fried dough, and face mysterious destiny.

Kelly's great friends Chris and Carolyn.  I didn't get to spend enough time with them, but they seem like great folks.  I did get to chat with Carolyn about Young and Lucinda Williams, and these are obviously essential foundations of an excellent person.

It was odd, in some ways, to have the concert at the Fairgrounds, but we're a small state and this is our biggest venue, which may also explain why Young had never made it to Vermont before the other night.  It was a night that threatened storms, but in the end only provided a wonderful backdrop to an amazing concert.  The lightning in the distance made the end of the concert even better.

A terrible picture, but an amazing moment.  Neil's first song was After The Gold Rush, with the requisite replacement of "in the 1970's" with "in the 21st century."  I cried as soon as he started singing.  It's hard to express what his music has meant to me over the decades.

My Actual Night in Wadi Rum

In a previous post I discussed the amazing night we spent in the Wadi Rum, and, truthfully, I will never forget it.  We're already discussing our next trip to Jordan, which will have to include at two nights, hopefully more, in the Wadi Rum.  However, I didn't actually get to sleep in that lovely little desert hut that was reserved for me.  As is well documented, I have profound sleep apnea, which would mean that trying to sleep without my CPAP machine is almost impossible - I definitely wouldn't sleep much, and my extraordinary snoring would assure that no one else would get any sleep at all.  Still, I had warned the students and Cyndi, and positioned myself as far away from others as possible, and just decided to cowboy up and accept that it was going to be a bad night (and brutal next day).  However, we were sitting in the large communal tent when I noticed a plug-in, which, I discovered, was fueled by solar power.  I asked if I might be able to sleep on the floor in the tent, and the Jordanian who ran the camp, as one would expect from a Jordanian (famous for their hospitality) immediately set up a little bed on the floor - and they even went out of their way to be quiet and prematurely shut down the party of a group of German tourists in the other part of the communal tent.  And, so, here is my bed, replete with my CPAP machine, which has toughed it out and traveled all over the world with me, and once again helped me pull through what might have been a bad night.  It ended up being a great night, and I rose, a little achy, but prepared to tackle Petra.

Not a bad set up, all things considered.  They dragged a slight mattress and a large pile of blankets, and I survived the cold desert night just fine.

My Summer with Proust, Eventually

Recently I was making the point, actually, quite honestly, that I was hoping to get most of my research (an impossible task) for the epics project done by next summer that I could devote the time to reading Proust's Remembrance of Things Past.  Not surprisingly, I was immediately attacked, albeit gently, by my friends because the statement was either immeasurably self-serving or the absolute definition of something a nerd would say.  My supposition is that it is probably about 10% of the former and 90% of the latter, although I may be cutting myself too much slack.  That said, I have been thinking about reading Proust (I think I made it through most of the first two books, but that was around twenty years ago), and the notion of setting aside an entire summer to focus on it seems like a wonderful way to spend one's time (sadly, and appropriately, the only person, besides myself, who thinks this is an excellent idea is my great friend Sanford Zale).  Part of the project would be finding someone to meet once a week for coffee so that we could discuss Proust (the picture below is truly representative expression of the responses to my proposal.  Secondly, I'd like to write every day, probably in this blog, on my reflections on that day's reading, and then tie it to deeper explorations of Proust's ideas and how they related to my own life and memory (as Proust reminds us, the memory of a particular image is just regret over a particular event).  So, I'd reflect on the words of Proust, and then tie them to a specific memory of my own.  And then just see where it takes me, either in the direction of an introduction to Proust or a novel.  So far, no takers on the coffee front, but I'll keep plugging away.  Now, all I need to do is get this book on the epics completed . . .

My excellent friend Heidi Steiner-Burkhardt.  The look on her face tells all you need to know of her response to my proposal that we meet weekly in the summer to discuss Proust.

Ride of Heroism

Normally once we start biking we try and eventually work our way up to a big ride late in the season.  However, we've essentially screwed ourselves because Andy and I, on one of our first rides, embarked and successfully completed a heroic 62 mile bike ride.  Now, to be fair, we weren't actually be supposed to go that far, but, per usual, my sense of direction is so profoundly bad that I ended up tacking on another twenty miles because I wasn't even close on my mileage calculations.  Our initial goal was to take off and cross the causeway to go as far as Allenholm Farms, but we made it there so quickly and effortlessly that I proposed we might consider heading up to Hero's Welcome, which, in my words, "couldn't be another five miles."  Well, technically, I was right, because it was actually 14 miles.  I thought Hero's Welcome, which is a great store and post office and pizzeria and sandwich shop was on the southern tip of North Hero Island, and, typically, it was on the north tip of North Hero Island.  It did give us a chance to eat three meals along the way, and still feel good about it.  However, and cycling back (no pun intended) to the original point, we're now talking about tackling a 100 mile ride.  I'm such an idiot.

Meeting Andy at our usual spot at Waterfront Park.  Little did we know the heroism that awaited.

The causeway, which runs miles out into the lake, and which, amazingly, I've never driven my bike off.

The bike ferry, which, a few years ago, was a very small deal that only ran a couple weekends in the height of the summer.  Now it runs every day all summer, and sometimes the queue is so long that you have to wait a turn to board.

And why there has to be a bike ferry.  We decided that Andy's idea of saving money by putting the bikes on our shoulders and swimming across needed more analysis.  We have purchased the year pass so now we can cross whenever we want.

Yes, a hero's welcome at Hero's Welcome.  It was fun until we did the calculations and figured out that it was 31 miles back home.  Doh!

Our last break for snacks - corn dogs and milk shakes at Seb's, next to the ruins of Ebeneezer Allen's tavern.

REDBLACKS REDUX

Oh, and, of course, on the way back from the CFL game we had to stop at Tim Horton's for Timbits, which we have thoroughly mythologized (which, to be honest, we do with most things).  I can even tell you which stop on the New York Thruway (Angola) has the Tim Horton's.  On the way up Andy and I were trying to figure out why we don't come up to Montreal more - and then sitting in traffic for an hour and a half at midnight on a Thursday night we remembered.

I hope some students come late for class tonight and bring me some Timbits as a propitiatory offering, although I'm not too certain of the logistics since there are no Tim Horton's in Vermont.

The Dreaded REDBLACKS

I don't know why it took us so long to drive up to Montreal for CFL games.  As I've discussed before, I've actually been a fan of the CFL for a long time, but it certainly took an almost equally long time to rally to cross the border.  Last year we went to our first CFL game and this year we're shooting for two, and then next year we'll take advantage of the discounted three game ticket package.  There was some talk this time of a larger contingent heading north, but conflicting schedules - and the fact that Mike Lange was not back from his sabbatical away in Newfoundland (why he didn't just swing by on the drive back and meet us in Montreal is still a bone of contention) - meant that only the excellent Andy Burkhardt and I made the trip (which is really OK, because we're the biggest CFL fans anyway).  We attended the Montreal Alouettes home opener this season when they were playing the dreaded Ottawa REDBLACKS, who were an expansion team last year (getting the CFL back up to nine teams).  Andy likes them, and they may be his favorite team - or it may be the Calgary Stampeders (I can't mock him because I have three favorite CFL teams, so a third of the league) - because one of their alternative jerseys features plaid.  I like them because their team name is completely in capitals, which I'm pretty certain is a first in professional sports.  Truthfully, if I thought they had chosen REDBLACKS as an homage to Stendahl then they would probably be my favorite team (they did have great fans).  Sadly, and typically, the Alouettes lost in heartbreaking fashion, but it was fun nonetheless.

The Alouettes were led out by number 19, S.J. Green, who really tried to fire up the crowd, which made him Andy's favorite player.  We decided that his career was based on the notion that if you can't afford A.J. Green - and don't really need catches from your wide receiver - then sign S.J. Green.

We bummed around in the tailgating area before the game, which was pretty cool, although we thought more would be going on.  As is well known, the western conference CFL teams (Montreal is, naturally, in the east) are better at tailgating.  Andy wore his plaid shirt to show his support for the REDBLACKS.

We stopped at a quiet little bar for a couple beers before the game and had the place to ourselves, which was weird because all the other bars near the stadium were packed.  It probably didn't help that the ATM and credit card machine was broken.  A nice guy came in to fix it while we were there, and apparently was using a jackhammer and a drill.  Still, they, like all Canadians, were incredibly nice and we'll definitely revisit.

To me, a well known gourmand, the high point of the trip was the smoked meat at Schwartz's Deli, a short walk from the campus.  We're discussing the very real possibility of going back just for a trip to Schwartz's and tailgating, and not actually going to the game.  However, we love the CFL, so that's just crazy talk.

What a Bad Picture

I just stumbled across this picture from a million years ago.  It was snapped on my first trip to Dubai in the UAE, so it must have been around 2003.  I was travelling with a Champlain College team visiting our branch campus and we were dragged to one of those tourist desert trips complete with jeep rides (which I don't love but can handle) and the requisite belly dancers, usually Russian prostitutes (as my friends can tell you, I have a complete aversion to belly dancing and this is inevitably when I drift away into the desert).  This is my old friend Peter Straub.  We were dragooned into putting on the "traditional" garb, which is doubtless why we look so uncomfortable.  It's something that first-time visitors to any region are pushed into doing as a means of showing empathy and understanding for a new culture, but that somehow ends up having the exact opposite effect.  As a person who has grown to love the Arabic world for some reason I find that this picture makes my skin crawl (although, truthfully, I'm not certain exactly why).  However, as a historian, I felt the need to include it anyway.  I'm also amazed at how elephantine I was in this picture, which was me at my heaviest (shortly before I started going to the gym every day - not that it ever seems to do any good).  Annoyingly, Peter looks exactly the same, and I just continue to age dramatically.

As Steve Wehmeyer always opines, I am one of those "desert-loving English," although I don't love this picture.  We both look tangibly uncomfortable, not because of the Arab connection but because we were being pressed to "play Arab."

International Incident, Inc.

Ah, the joys of taking students on an international trip.  Here are Taylor and Emma shutting down security at the Frankfurt International Airport for around ten minutes with their purple unicorn.  The security guards kept scanning the unicorn, which was inside a backpack, before finally, and gingerly, pulling it out.   As their teacher and chaperone I had to stand there and keep the chief of security happy, or at least mollified, which is traditionally not one of my strengths.

To me the bigger question was not the danger posed by a purple unicorn, but why a 19 year old woman would need a purple unicorn.

Camping in the Wadi Rum

I wish I had more pictures of the Wadi Rum, but, tragically and typically, the desert ate my camera.  I know people who routinely smash their phones, which I've managed to avoid, but I can never mock them because apparently I am really hard on cameras.  A couple years ago in the UAE I destroyed three cameras in the space of three months, each time in a different fashion (water, smashy-smashy and sand in the aperture [which sounds like a Smiths song]).  I recreated the sand in the aperture misadventure this trip, so I have precious few pictures of the part of the trip that I was most excited about.  Oh well, I'll take more next time.

We stayed at a little campground run through Petra Moon Tourism, an organization that I can not speak too highly of (definitely look them up if you're considering visiting Jordan - or drop me a line and I'll pass along their contact information).  

Leaving the road behind and heading out into the Wadi Rum proper.

Our little huts.  The students slept two to a tent, except for the two students who slept out under the stars.  The professors had tents all to themselves.  Well, Cyndi did.  I ended up not sleeping in my tent, but that's another story.

All in all, pretty comfortable digs.  A couple of the students were cold.  I wish I had told them that the desert is very cold at night - oh, wait, I did - a dozen times!

There was also a much bigger communal tent where we gathered for meals.  Here are Andy and Cyndi scarfing down a quick lunch before we headed out for a jeep tour.  This is the tent where I ended up sleeping, and I'll get around to that story soon.