Thinking of Yemen

It's amazing how a remarkably short little visit can stick with you.  As I've chronicled earlier I was only in Yemen for a weekend, and even then I didn't really get out of the old part of Sana'a.  Nevertheless, it has stuck with me in a way that few other places have.  I've read several books on Yemen and obsessively follow their unfolding history/tragedy on the news and especially on Twitter.  And through Twitter I've actually been in contact with several folks, both inside and outside of the country, who have kindly answered my questions.  I set up a blog last year where I wanted to post actual Yemeni stories but in the end I was not able to track down any material from inside the country; truthfully, I think Yemen has more problems to deal with that answering requests from anonymous Americans.  That said, I don't normally ever give up on anything so maybe I'll pursue it again.  Lord knows the world needs a different view from the country other than the constant drum beat of war.  In my Ibn Battuta class this semester I'm using three books by Tim Mackintosh-Smith who actually lives in Sana'a.  I'm a big fan of his work and if I had been more familiar with him on my trip there I probably would have tried to track him down.  Oh well, on the next trip . . .

One of the many people who befriended me in the streets of the old city, and who could not have been nicer to me when they didn't really have much reason to be.

Calling Lahore

I am making a more concerted effort to stay active on blogging - while also devoting too much time to Twitter, and even Facebook has snuck back into the rotation (although that's mainly related to the fact that I just celebrated another birthday and thus received many kind notes from friends around the world (which is pretty amazing/cool since I don't publish my birthday on FB).  Initially I typed in "endured" instead of celebrated, mainly because it was a birthday I wasn't looking forward to, which I'll discuss on a later post, but it turned out to be a wonderful day - and I've survived another year.

Today I want to take a very quick break from syllabus construction to talk about an odd event that happened in class in the fall semester.  I was teaching a class called Crossroads, which is a junior level course I designed.  Of all the classes I've taught over the last thirty years it may be the oddest, which is really saying something.  The idea behind the class was to look at the convergence of societies that came together in Central Asia, so, naturally, there was a big Silk Road component, which is a topic that fascinates me (and, which, I've traveled on).  A big part of the class was the in-class analysis of various artifacts from the area.  I would project a picture of a sculpture or a mosque or a painting or a mummy on the board and the students would have to, within the 75 minutes of the class, write up a two page bulleted paper.  The British always refer to these as "white papers," although I guess for our business-focused students the best comparison was to an executive summary.  I gave the students no information at all.  Now, they were not completely adrift because a) we had devoted a few weeks to discussing the foundations of the cultures that met in Central Asia, b) they could work in groups, c) they could bring in technology, and d) they could, ask a class, ask me as many as three questions (which I sort of vaguely answered).

Strangely, they were enjoyed the process, and I suddenly found myself with a group of budding archaeologists and historians.  One day one of the students said, "OK, explain to me why there is Zoroastrian iconography on that Hindu statue."  My response was, "First off, shut up, this isn't Middlebury, and, secondly, I assure you that that is the first time that sentence has ever been uttered at Champlain College" - although, obviously, I was delighted.  In short, they really enjoyed the challenge.  It also had some real world application, however, since it was one of those transferable skills - bosses do ask you to become "experts" on a subject with an hour's notice and want you to produce the executive summary that they can read as they walk down the hall to talk to potential clients or the board of trustees.

One day we were looking at the famous ascetic Buddha and the groups were happily working away.  I was in the back of the room helping one of the groups when I noticed that my student Zachary Svobada was on the phone.  The other members of the group had an amused look on their faces.  I started to give Zachary some well-deserved abuse for being on the phone in class (one of my huge rules that result in torture and death) when he gave me the "hold on, I'm on the phone" hand signal, and before I could say anything one of his group members said, "he's on the phone to Pakistan."  Yes, he was trying to call a museum in Lahore, Pakistan.  As part of their research they had figured out that the Buddha itself was in a museum in Lahore and Zachary figured out that the best approach to just call them and try get some resident expert on the line.  Sadly, the time difference meant that even though he actually got the museum on the phone it was closed for the day - which saved him from the potential language problem.  Still, I had to give him major credit for the effort.  Clearly, we're not Camp Champ anymore.

This is a Buddha from the ancient area of Gandhara, which would be in the area made up of a chunk of Pakistan and Afghanistan.  It was a remarkably rich period culturally.  The first artistic representation of the Buddha with a physical body, as compared to symbols, is believed to have been in this region - a merging of Indian and Greek concepts.  This is the ascetic Buddha, coming in from his years in the wilderness and right before the moment of Enlightenment.  It was a perfect artifact to use since it expresses the coming together of these different societies.

Zachary on the phone to Lahore.  Late in the semester he did, successfully, manage to call a museum in the UK and learned all sorts of inside information about Parthian kings and their coins.  I told him that I didn't want to be dismissive of his major here at Champlain, but that I wouldn't rest until he pursued a doctorate in history.  This is definitely one of my favorite moments in a long career.

My People

Last summer I drove back to Indiana, a place with which I have a pretty tortured relationship.  This is probably best displayed by the fact that I still list Rising Sun, a town where I lived part of the time through first grade, and not Lawrenceburg, where I graduated from high school and where my father still lives, as my hometown.  I guess I've never been a good fit as a Hoosier for any number of reasons.  First off, I just don't like basketball, even though it was the only sport I could play with any sort of middling proficiency - that alone is ground for excommunication (especially if you're tall).  Plus, the state is so distressingly conservative, and, well, obviously I'm not.  Over the years several of my old high school classmates have tracked me down on Facebook, which is actually OK, although I've had to defriend a couple of them because of their ridiculously arch-conservative - bordering on reactionary - if not racist - rants.  The point of Facebook is to remind me of birthdays and for my friends to post pictures of their dogs and kids and grandkids (preferably in that order), not for serious political dialogue (and this is why I spend more time on Twitter).  Finally, Hoosiers just don't leave the state, and I love to travel.  For all of these reasons I always have very  mixed emotions on returning to the state.

Now, it doesn't mean that Hoosiers aren't friendly, because they are remarkably nice folks - and certainly much more pleasant and honest and open and real than Vermonters.  When Sanford and I made our Trip of Excellence to Oklahoma a few years ago he left quite convinced that Indiana was the friendliest state, best exemplified by the postmaster in North Vernon who ran after our car to tell us about a restaurant she thought we should visit.

What made this trip so rewarding was that I was able to spend some time with my people.  Any Southerner, and the hills of southern Indiana are much more than quasi-Southern, knows that "my people" means your family.  So, for instance, if a man tells a woman that he wants her to meet his people, then things are progressing nicely. On this particular trip I was able to spend time with my Mom and Dad and Aunt Em (yes, I have an Aunt Em) and cousin Jana and my brother Eric and his girlfriend Linda and their various and sundry kids - including talking fantasy football with my nephew Cam and chatting with my nephew Cole.

I was also able to make it out to the cemetery in Rising Sun to spend time with family members who have passed, which, naturally, was a bittersweet moment.  I was afraid that I would not be able to find the tombstones but was pleasantly surprised that I remembered.

There is something remarkably heart-warming about a well-maintained tombstone, complete with flowers and flags, in a country cemetery. 

My Dad's mom, and the person, other than my father, that I am most like.  She was smart as a whip, did not suffer fools lightly, and had no trouble telling you what she thought.  I can remember my Dad waking her up one time in the hospital to ask her the name of my first grade teacher, which she immediately told us, before passing again into some medicated sleep. I can still clearly remember the last time I saw her in the old house on Mulberry Street.  My son, who was very young, and I went down to visit.  Just as we were leaving Maude began to cry (my father cannot remember another instance of her crying) and I asked her if she was OK.  She replied, "Everyone has their favorites."  In a classic Southern sense she married into the Scudder family and quickly knew more about them than anyone else - of course, she summarized the Scudders as nothing but a lot of "horse thieves and defrocked ministers." She played a very active role in the Scudder
Association for years (sadly, I know little about her family background). Even though she was a straight A student she never had the chance to attend school beyond high school, even though she was the smartest of all of us.

My Dad's Dad, who we always called Jum or Papa (pronounced PaPaw).  I've always opined that Jum was the only Scudder worth a damn.  Like many of his generation he fought in World War II, in his case in the Pacific.  He brought back a nutcracker in the shape of a woman's legs, which, much like the Major Award in A  Christmas Story, formed the basis of a decades-long battle with Maude.  For decades he worked at Seagram's Distillery and also cut hair on the side.  He was a gentle, gentle soul - I think the harshest thing I ever heard him say was that someone (probably me) was so dumb that he would starve to death with a ham sandwich in his pocket.  Jum had a lot of tools in the basement and would patiently allow me to "build" things, which mainly consisted of me pounding nails into boards.  To this day the one item I would run into a burning house to rescue is the walking stick he made me.  He was a beloved figure and his passing was felt by many.

My Mom's Mom.  Another sainted figure.  Very few people ever called her Alice.  We mainly knew her as Phoodey, which, I think, related to her tendency to say "Phoodey-Doodey" to mark exclamation or exasperation.  I may have helped give her that nickname, not because I remember it but because it sounds like something I would do.  I have very vague memories of the farm that she and Bud used to run.  My clearest memories are associated with a country store they ran, at which I would spend weeks in the summer "helping" her operate - in this "helping" related to having access to the candy section and probably eating her out of house and home. Years later, and after Bud had a stroke, they lived with my parents for a few years.  During the summers during college when I was working night shift at the cardboard box factory - and thus not getting up until late morning - she would fix me a big country breakfast every day to fortify me for the day.  She made the best bread and rolls, which I can still taste.

Phoodey's second husband, Bud.  I never met my Mom's actual father, who she was separated from and who no one ever discussed (like one of those family secrets that Lucinda Williams would sing about).  I was mainly afraid of Bud, not because he ever did anything mean to me, but mainly because he was more gruff and, truthfully, it was tough to compare to Jum.  I wish I had known him better.  If nothing else he never yelled at me for drinking all of his Choc-Ola from the country store.

Narrow Road to the Deep North

"Crossing long fields,

frozen in its saddle,

my shadow creeps by."

Basho

An appropriate picture for a Vermont winter.  My hound and boon companion Loki on one of our innumerable walks.

There Is A Town

Of course, it comes as no surprise to anyone that I am a certifiable Neil Young freak.  It's heading into the fifth decade of my fascination with his music and it shows no signs of dimming any time soon.  I can still remember the first time I ever heard Helpless, and I'm sure I've heard it 27,000 times since - and it still sends chills up my spine even today.

 For years I've been talking about making a pilgrimage up to his hometown of Omemee, Ontario, Canada.  My excellent friend Mike Lange arranged for us to have our own version of the Trip of Excellence that I took with my friend Sanford.  The theme of this trip was music, with both Young and Rush, Lange's favorite band, having roots in Ontario.

Our first stop was in Young's hometown of Omemee, which we entered on a wonderfully overcast summer day.  Somehow a bright and sunny day would not have fit my perception of the town, and certainly not his music.  As it turns out Omemee is actually not in north Ontario at all, but rather much farther south - although I think north works better in the song (or maybe it just seemed north if you were in Toronto).  I'll include some posts chronicling the other parts of the a great trip.  The Youngtown Museum wasn't open that day, which, truthfully, was fine because it gave us the opportunity to just walk around the town, which I think, as a historian, actually worked better for me anyway.

"There is a town in north Ontario, with dreams, comfort, memory, despair." Allegedly the actual end of the line is "to spare" but I simply can't hear it that way.  Beyond decades of hearing it one way, I just don't think it fits the elegiac nature of the song itself.

Obviously, it's a very small town but also a very pleasant one.  I was surprised that there was no sign commemorating Young's birth, but that may just be a Canadian thing.  The nice shopkeeper we ran into thought it was a good idea.

Lange when he discovered that the town had nothing at all to do with Rush.  I tried to convince him to watch the Trailer Park Boys episode featuring Rush but was unsuccessful.

Sadly, the Youngtown Museum wasn't open.  I think Lange was much more disappointed than me, mainly because he really wanted me to have a great time (and I did).  He actually swapped emails with the volunteers who run the place and tried to convince them to come in on their off-day simply because I was in town.

And, yes, as the song reminds us, the chains were locked and tied across the door.

None of this stopped me from having a great time.  I made certain that we were playing Helpless as we drove into town.  I'm definitely planning on heading back there again sometime when the museum is open.

A nice understated homage to one of my favorite Young songs.

We did meet one really nice shopkeeper who actually knew Young, and she graciously talked to us for an hour about him.  She didn't have any Young souvenirs so I purchased a University of Omemee sweatshirt.  There's no such place, but they were made to pay for a new junior hockey center.

A picture that she shared with us.  She simply referred to him as "our Neil."  She said he was nice but also really shy, and that it was hard to get him to open up, but once he did he was very friendly.

A great trip with a great friend.

CFL Exellence

I was just reading my friend Trish Siplon's excellent blog and she admitted that 2014 was a bad year for blogging.  Apparently there's something in the water because it was, by far, my worst year in regard to looking after my blog.  Part of it related to the fact that I didn't do much traveling, and, well, this did start out as a travel blog (hence the clunky blog moniker).  Still, it's not as if I didn't do anything that was interesting - or at least interesting to me.  I will be taking a group of students to Jordan over spring break, which I'm looking forward to.  That said, I have to get my head around the fact that I'm just not going to be traveling like I used to, and, truthfully, that's not an entirely bad thing.  I think too often I ignored my personal life - both the good and bad of it - because of my fascination with discovering new adventures, and foolishly ignoring the treasures I already possessed.

I think I've devoted a ton of time to Twitter (as I close in on 8000 Tweets) and I've found that world really fascinating. In fact, I think I now clearly fall into that category of folks who get most of their news, especially true in regard to international news, through Twitter.  I've also been devoting a lot of time to one of my latest projects, which I call the Core Talks (that deserves a separate posting, so I'll have more to say about that later). 

I've also been doing a ton of research and writing on my long-delayed - and long-suffering - epics book.  I feel like I'm making a lot of progress on it, and I'm slowly building up that momentum and approaching that tipping point that form the core of all big projects.  However, that also deserves its own postings; so, once again, more on that later.

Anyway, the point of that long preamble is that I'm going to attempt to devote more time to blogging this year.  It is something I enjoy, especially when I look back months or years later and am surprised (sometimes pleasantly so) at the places I've been.  The other day someone asked me why I blog, and I had to say that I do it for myself (and who needs a better reason than that).

For several years a group of us have been talking about making our way up to Montreal to watch a CFL game.  I've always enjoyed the Canadian Football League and my son and I always used to watch the Grey Cup.  When we were getting supplies for the game the standing joke was that we must have made it to the store before the mad rush to get Grey Cup Party treats.  So, we decided to stop talking about it (much like I tired of listening to Sanford talk about driving to Oklahoma and forced him to take the Trip of Excellence). 

We (Mike, Andy and Eli) decided to go to the Alouettes game with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers, since they are my favorite team.  We had considered trying to catch the Edmonton Eskimos, since they are my favorite team.  In the end I guess it didn't matter because we did get to watch the Alouettes, who are my favorite team.  It's rare when you can have a third of a league (with expansion the CFL is up to 9 teams again) as your favorite team.  The Edmonton and Winnipeg favorite team competition relates to the fact that I mistakenly thought that former Vikings head coach Bud Grant had coached the Eskimos, so I adopted them as my official favorite CFL team and this was true for years.  And then later I found out that I was mistaken, and that he had actually coached the Blue Bombers (to multiple Grey Cup titles, before moving on to the Vikings and four Super Bowl, uh, appearances) - so, technically, the Blue Bombers should have been my favorite team.  In the end, however, I really think my favorite team should be the Alouettes because, for those of us up here in Vermont, they are our closest professional team.  Obviously, I'm still negotiating the whole business of my favorite CFL team.

The trip turned out to be a lot of fun, even though the Alouettes lost in dramatic fashion.  At the time they had a terrible record, but ended up going on an insane win streak at the end of the season and almost made it to the Grey Cup.  I think this is going to be an annual event.

It was pretty easy to find the stadium, especially with brilliant guides like Burkhardt and Lange on the job.

The stadium was packed and there was a lot of energy.  Truthfully, the food was an abomination - imagine sub-high school level - but we'll just plan better next time.  And, yes, the end zone is twenty yard deep.  One of the many cool peculiarities of Canadian football.

The Gentlemen of Excellence, as is their wont, passionately supported the home team and made Vermont proud.  How could we not be excited - the Alouettes are my favorite team.

We did get to see former Bengal Chad Ochocinco Johnson score his first CFL touchdown.  After catching the pass, in classic Ochocinco fashion, he hugged the referee.

While the food in the stadium left a lot to be desired, the post-game stop at Tim Horton's for donuts was, as always, tasty and delicious.  Here's Andy considering whether he should go back and for more Tim Bits.

Survival Guide

For a person who has the reputation of inculcating a culture of intimidation I also oddly inspire a lot of enthusiastic loyalty from my students.  One of the best examples of this - and one of my most treasured artifacts from now (as hard as it is to believe) thirty years of teaching - was presented to me by two of my favorite students (and unrepentant reprobates), Catherine Jones and Caitlin D'Onofrio.  They have both taken me several times, with Catherine holding the North American record of taking me four different times. 

After the last meeting of my Arab Women's Writers class (and how I ended up teaching that class is a story in itself) they waited around to present me with a Scudder Survival Guide which they had written themselves.  I was too choked up to ask the obvious question: shouldn't you have been spending your Finals Week studying instead?  That said, it is priceless and should be required reading for all my future students.  I'll include a couple pictures and the text, although I'll have to wait until the beginning of the next semester to snap a picture of the two miscreants for posting.

                                                                    * * *

Scudder Survival Guide

[Classified]

Written by 3 Year Scudder Survivors

Catherine Jones & Caitlin D'Onofrio

If you're a freshman, I'm sorry.

In the event of tardiness, don't even think about coming to class without bringing a snack to present to Scudder.  There will be times that it will cause you to be significantly later than if you didn't, but trust us when we say that you will regret not doing so the moment you walk into the classroom.

Learn to accept your impending fate that the best grade you will receive is B/B+.  Anything higher and pinch yourself because you're dreaming.

If you're on your phone or computer in the middle of one of these discussions, assume that you're not only failing this class, but everything else in life.

Until the very second that Scudder dismisses your class, don't you dare move a muscle to pack up your backpack, or put on your jacket.  Stupid, stupid move.

When you think that there really is no deeper meaning, you're wrong.  Look harder.

Be less stupid.

Don't forget that Winesburg, Ohio is the greatest American novel of all time.

Reference Dickens whenever possible . . . and if you don't know who Charles Dickens is then just drop this class right now.

Gary Scudder is a film whore.  Call him Gary and he will kill you.

To freshmen: don't think that you will impress Scudder with your knowledge of Sigmund Freud and his theories.  You will soon learn that they can be related to anything which doesn't make them impressive.

If you think something you're going to contribute might sound stupid, it probably does.  But say it anyways because he'll bask in the glorious opportunity you presented to him of mocking your buffoonery.

Be alert and prepared to shield yourself from flying markers, books, or anything within arm's reach capable of being thrown at you that won't cause irreparable damage, but enough force to make you regret whatever you just said.

If you're making a PowerPoint don't you dare use full sentences.  Bullet points, people.

Karl Marx.  That's it.

Be prepared to think more deeply than you ever have, participate in discussions you never dreamt of being capable to participate in, and to walk out of the room each day having a completely different perspective on the world . . . all as a result of a man who will without fail, not matter what bullshit you pull, refer to you as a scholar.

                                                             * * *

That last one really got to me.  I also liked the one about looking harder.  I do love to teach - and, despite popular perception, I do love my students (and none more than these two knucklehead scholars).