A full life, a lasting legacy

Another of several entries I began the weekend of November 4.

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Some people live life so large, you feel subdued by their presence, like a small flame starved for oxygen. Barbara was one of those people. Except that you never felt that way in her presence - she was a joy to be around, so full of energy, so positive, so supportive. If you were a small flame, you felt large when you were with her, because you fed off her energy. It was after you had spent time with her, and then failed to resist the temptation to compare your own life with hers, that you could feel subdued.

It was a very difficult task to dismantle her apartment. Thank God I didn't have to undertake it personally - it was difficult enough just to see it. Having spent years in the handcrafted furniture business, her place was decorated in a way that mirrored her personality. I remember going in there just days after her death - hesitant at first, I was surprised by how comforting it felt to be there, as though the apartment had become her incarnation. It felt like a visit with Barbara herself.

I admire my sisters for their strength and skill in dismantling it all in orderly fashion. By the time the rest of the family arrived, everything was packed and segregated, according to recipient.

How difficult it has been to accept Barbara's possessions. If I had the money, I'd have kept the apartment's lease indefinitely, and left the contents intact. Then, whenever we wanted to visit Barbara, we could just go there and sit for a while. How comforting that would have been. I look at her things in my house and I think how strange it seems, until I reflect that she'd have wanted me to have them. She'd have wanted us all to enjoy the things she cherished. And that brings some comfort. After all, it is her love, her strength, her determination and her courage that live on in my heart and in my mind - the possessions are simply subtle reminders to treasure that legacy.

When you spend your life opening doors for others, yours shall never close.

Blue Hills Hike

This is one of several blog entries that I'd begun the weekend of November 4th.

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When you inspire others through love and positive energy, you live forever in their hearts; and thus is the face of mankind forever altered, and infinitely improved.

My sister Barbara never did anything without doing it well. Whether it was shopping for groceries, or building a furniture business, it was undertaken with the same determination to do it the best way possible.


She loved to hike - it was possibly her favorite thing in the world. And for Bostonians, that means you are intimately familiar with the Blue Hills Reservation. The location derives its name from early European settlers who, while sailing the coast, noted the bluish hue in the hills just southwest of Boston. In fact, the name Massachusetts comes from the native occupants of the hills, who called themselves Massachusett, meaning "People of the great hills". The hills themselves aren't huge - the tallest is 635 feet - but they are pocked with steep, craggy climbs that can challenge even seasoned hikers. Barbara loved to lure friends and family into hikes there, then challenge them with races to the top, followed by races back down. Taken at a fast pace, the ascent is trying - your thighs will burn and you'll soon be sucking air. But truthfully, its the descent that can kill you.


It was only natural that we'd arrange a memorial hike for family and friends there. We started at Houghton Pond, gathering in the crisp morning air to exchange hugs and hot chocolate. We began with some ad-hoc speeches, memories and testimonials, conducted 'round a circle in a small overlook. A stiff, cold breeze from the pond made us draw ever closer, and I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake by wearing hiking shorts - by the end, I was shivering almost uncontrollably.


From there, our entourage snaked along Hillside Street, making our way to the head of the Skyline Loop Trail. I ran the first several hundred feet of the trail before I had to stop for breath. I could almost hear Barbara teasing me as she blazed past and ran ahead.


Once at the top, we had to wait nearly an hour for stragglers to catch up. It was a good time to take some photos and watch people interact. It was while taking photos that I noticed the blue backpack sitting on a rock, overlooking the group. It was Barbara's day pack. Suddenly, I was struck by the realization that Barbara's urn was in that backpack. It was one of those hyper-lucent moments when something that had been hazy and distant in your mind instantly crystalizes into sharp focus: she is gone.


The second moment, for me, came after everyone had finally gathered. Through the dense fog of my thoughts, I heard some words, and finally the urn was taken from the backpack. What a gorgeous piece, hand carved of exotic wood. The urn was opened and, one by one, the contents were sifted into waiting hands, to be distributed among the pines and brambles along the trail's peak. That clear moment hit me like a rail-splitter, and I nearly collapsed with emotion. I don't recall much of what happened after that, except that at some point after the ashes had been distributed, I decided I had to leave. I bolted headlong down the trail, raw emotion flowing from my eyes like a wellspring. I think I passed some hikers at one point - I must have been a sight. I don't know how long I ran before I determined I was lost. Finally, I collapsed on a rock, exhausted, and just stared up at the gorgeous blue sky, watching the clouds pass overhead.


When I'd finally traced my way back to the peak, everyone was still there. I stepped off the trail to skirt the gathering, located the cairn that marked our trail and commenced running again. I ran the entire length of the trail, back to the head, and then another half mile to the parking lot.


I am not a runner, by any stretch of the imagination. But I never felt winded. I suppose it was my way of saying goodbye, and it was Barbara's way of helping me do it.

Heaven, streaming in 0's and 1's

I am a lousy critic. In 2003 I went on a film binge, watching more than 150 movies. I reviewed approximately 80 of them, and trust me, no film critics fretted over their jobs. I know nothing about film, and even less about music. So I'm leary of writing music reviews.

Of course, that won't stop me.

The other night, I was sitting in the Academy's computer lab, working on some very important.. computer things. In the background, as is always the case, I had the FIOS music channel tuned to the 24-hour jazz station. Suddenly... a voice floated through the room, and like the scent of honeysuckle on a summer day, grabbed my attention and awakened all my senses. At first I thought it was Billie Holiday, but then the arrangement struck me as too intimate. Who IS that?, I wondered. It was Madeleine Peyroux.

Its partly her voice, but mostly her delivery that gets your attention. The voice is imperfect. She doesn't hit every note. She seems to be feeling her way through the notes, trying, at times, to find them. But her delivery is naked poetry - you could strip the words away and it wouldn't matter. However, take the time to really listen to the words, and you will be rewarded. Its almost more than the senses can bear.

Ok, so I'm a sucker for understated blues, especially from a female perspective. I admit it. And she definitely has her roots in the blues - Atlanta, Georgia blues, with a French infusion, owing to nine years growing up in Paris. In fact, on most songs, she strums a Django Reinhardt-ish rhythm from first note to last. And as French influences go, so goes jazz - layered into the mix with the occasional muted trumpet or saxophone solo, and with phrasing that accents dissonant, unresolved chords.

She wraps herself around a song like a harem cloth, and you can actually feel the gauzy texture of her voice. With her phrasing, each song becomes a walk down a tree-lined country road, shoes in hand. Or maybe its a cobblestone street in Paris. Both work equally as well. You can close your eyes and feel it.

Make no mistake, she doesn't have the pipes. That's why the production is studio-intimate. Its like she's singing to you over coffee at the kitchen table. But she's got phrasing to rival Billie Holiday, and that's no exaggeration. She owns every song.

And in two days, Gods of Amazon willing, I will own her CD.

Turn left in t-h-r-e-e seconds...

I love road maps. Adventure lies in the imperfect interpretation of their perfect detail; you can find a thousand routes to a single destination. And that's what I dislike about GPS. Its so inflexible and uncreative. Its an algorhythm. Give it a destination, and it will analyze gobs of data against a set of parameters and determine the ideal route. But, according to whose ideal? Sure, the Jersey Turnpike gets me there faster, but I'd rather take a hot poker in my eye. Where are the curves? Where's the scenery? Where are the great local eateries?

This is how I feel about Calvert, except its worse - I don't even know where I'm going. I've got explicit GPS directions, but where we'll end up is anybody's guess. I'm not teaching my kids anymore, Calvert is teaching them. Just so I can get that rubber stamp: "You've done well, Jim. You have met our standards. You have been assimilated. Welcome to the club."

>yawn<

See, I really don't care about those standards. Is that wrong?

Here's what I think is missing from homeschooling - a clear destination. There are all kinds of materials out there to direct you to some destination, but there is nothing that truly defines what the destination is. They give you all the maps, but they never tell you where you're going. Its like someone programming your car's GPS system, and then handing you the keys. You follow the instructions, but you don't know where its leading you... Ooh, that sounds adventurous, come to think of it - I've got to get GPS so I can try that. Ok, so maybe its not quite like that. But it seems that even tools that try to outline the destination seem to get all balled up in the directions. Goals, milestones - call them what you want, but they are sorely lacking.

So here's what I'd love to do. Create the goals. Develop a guideline for homeschooling parents who want to know where their kid should be at various milestones. "By the end of second grade, your well-developed child should be able to:"

a.

a1.

a1.1

b.

b1.

b1.1

c... etc

Could it be that simple? If I had that guideline, I could turn the GPS off, and take the scenic route. It'd be a lot more fun, and eventually I'd meet back up with all those folks taking the Jersey Turnpike.

Church-goin' fool...

I am devout, in my own strange way, but I avoid the church as one might seek to avoid the Bubonic Plague. I don't shrink from Divine judgement - its judgement from imperfect mortals such as myself that gives me heartburn.

Notwithstanding, this morning for the first time in 10-15 years I went to church. The headmistress has been wanting to find one since taking the helm at the Academy, and for some reason, we picked this cold and rainy morning to venture forth. The church is only blocks from the Academy, and it was the first service since construction began nearly a year ago. I was drawn in by, of all things, the aesthetic of its post-and-beam architecture. Certainly not the most noble of motivations, but hey, it got me into the pew, drinkin' the kool-aid. It felt as though I'd never left. Looking around at the congregation, so neatly dressed and sporting their behavioral "Sunday best", I couldn't help but wonder why all these seemingly perfect people had come to church today. Presumably to save me.

So I admit I'm not a big fan of the church - any church. And let me just say that I KNOW its all me, that my cynical distaste for the church is just another sharp flaw in an overflowing quiver. I know that most of the people there are sincere, and that they derive mutual benefit from the weekly fellowship. Maybe its my Catholic upbringing, or maybe I just don't like hypocritical, judgemental preaching, of the holier-than-thou variety. Yeah, I remember getting lots of that.

I can't say that today's experience has greatly improved my outlook. But churches sure are lovely. Maybe if I just keep going for the aesthetic stimulation, I will eventually drink enough kool-aid to be transformed. Now that would be dialectic poetry.

One man's treasure...

A glazed ceramic cornucopia. Much to my mother's dismay, this was my dad's prized possession. He brought it back from the Caribbean and displayed it proudly in the "library" of their Florida home, as though it were an original Remington.

This might have been the end of the story, except that cold New England nights had saddled my dad with seven kids. Four wicked, scheming, twisted daughters, and three fine sons. Trust me, that cornucopia had it coming the day it arrived.

It started innocently enough. Some of the daughters, on a visit, decided the cornucopia would look good in the bird bath, which my dad cleaned faithfully each morning. Ultimately, it was his reaction that got things going - he was pissed. Let the games begin.

Over the years, the cornucopia managed to find its way onto the toilet, onto the roof, into the car, over to the neighbor's, into the clothes dryer, just to name a few places. On each visit, the previous prank would have to be outdone, and on each visit, it was. I'm not sure if my dad's reaction was intended to stop the pranks, or to keep them going. At any rate, whatever the intention, it certainly kept them going.

When my dad passed in 1992, the daughters claimed the cornucopia as a symbol of their torment - er, his memory. Since then, it has passed from one to the other, as a sort of gift. Each time a sister visits another, the cornucopia is snuck into the host house, and stowed in an inconspicuous place, to be discovered at some later time. The last person to have it was Barbara.

This weekend I drove to Boston to attend a memorial hike for Barbara, and to help clean out her apartment. She had recently purchased a new washer and dryer, and I had loaded them into my truck to take back home with me - a very difficult thing to do, but that's another blog, entirely.

When I arrived home and unloaded the washer and dryer, I found the cornucopia inside the dryer. Touché, sisters. Let the games begin.

Place Marker...

So much to write about - the trip to Boston, the memorial service on the Blue Hills trail, the packing of Barbara's apartment. No time for it now, unfortunately.

Busy is good right now. Yes, busy... must keep busy...

Belly v. Butt

The headmaster sincerely wishes the endowment supported male-only enrollment. Unfortunately that's not the case, so we have to cope with a student body that's squarely co-ed. And the co-ed situation brings with it certain issues.

Yesterday, two students were caught playing "doctor". One of the students was overheard telling the other that babies are delivered "through the butt". The other student argued that they are delivered "through the belly". A small fight ensued, whereby the headmaster had to intervene. "Look kids, everyone knows that babies are delivered through the left nostril". Whereby the headmistress got involved. Doesn't anyone value humor anymore?

I pulled the young male student aside and gave him a good talking-to. But I chose not to focus on the issues of child birth, 'cuz, you know, that conversation always leads to the conception conversation, which sends me running for the man-fridge. So I focused instead on the issue of effective debate. I told him it was important to pick his battles - that every argument didn't have to be fought and won. I stressed the importance of winning, but only when it mattered. Sometimes, I told him, you need to recognize that the battle is unimportant, and walk away.

He seemed impressed. Then he went around the corner, and was overheard saying "See, I told you it was the belly."

The science of science

Yesterday, we focused on science. For the first time. Really.

I mean, we've done Science before, but more like Wierd Science. Like, "blowing stuff up" science. Hypothesis: flammable liquid will burn. Method: soak object with flammable liquids, light with match. Control: everything that's not soaked with flammable liquids. Observations: WOAH! Results: Toast. Conclusions: Waaaay coooooool!

I hated science as a kid. Studying periodic tables. Dissecting live animals. Stirring liquids with a glass rod. Hated it. Hated it. Hated it. What the heck did I learn from it? Can't think of a thing.

Anyway, yesterday's goal was to conclude an experiment we set up and conducted over the last 5 days - How a Plant Absorbs Water. (yaaaawn)

Actually, I would have been bored, but I LOVE methodology, and I love documenting stuff. Its what I do best. Need a boring Technical Manual or User's Guide? I'm your man. I once wrote a 150-page business plan from scratch in two days, with page after page of complex custom diagrams and graphics. Man, did I reek on day three.

But for this first experiement, we didn't go all out on the documentation part - rather than plan and document throughout the experiment, what we did was more like a post-mortem. Still, it was enough to help the students begin to think about, and to understand, the methodology of scientific experimentation. And you have to love a subject where you can teach skills for real-life and throw in a writing exercise to boot.

In the end, their experiment proved only that their hypothesis was incorrect, but in doing so, I think they understood that there is more to experimentation than meets the eye, or the flaming match.

I think we're gonna like Science.

El Ropa Interior De Hombres

I'm beginning to my have doubts about the Spanish Department. The head of the department recently sent a message to all students that began "Ola". I mean, sure the "H" is silent, but it kinda has to be there, doesn't it?

This semester, the Academy is sponsoring a Spanish class for regional schools. The instructor appears to be struggling to stay ahead of the students. They ask him simple questions like, how do you say "40" in Spanish, and he tells them he'll get back to them. He is spending a great deal of class time on www.freetranslation.com. I think the students are on to him. They call him "Maestro muy mal" and he just smiles and says "Ola!".

Last week, the students created menus for a fictitious spanish restaurant. The instructor encouraged "creative" dishes. These are some of the chef's offerings:

Cola de Perro en una Cama de Manzanas, Sobrepasado con Cera de Oreja
(Dog tails on a bed of apples, topped with ear wax)

Uñas, con Queso
(fingernails with cheese)

Gato Grasiento, Cocinado en el Jugo del Ropa Interior
(greasy cat, cooked in underwear juice)

The Academy was so concerned about that last menu item that we felt compelled to reach out to the parent of the student. We wanted to verify that she was not offended by the term "underwear juice". She replied "Yes, I'm o.k. with underwear juice", adding "Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd string together."

Just to remove any speculation among the students, the instructor qualified the term "underwear juice" for the class.

Un'-der-wear Juice (n) - water reserved from the process of washing a load of underwear.

The creativity of the students, and the flexibility of the parents, never ceases to amaze the Academy.

Its all in the packaging

Warning! The Academy's Headmistress has declared this blog entry to be rated PG-13. Where is the sense of humor, I ask you?


I love clubs. I love the heady experience of being a member of an exclusive group, rubbing elbows with the upper-crust. What a rush! Pull up to the curb, step out proudly and survey the underpriveleged, admiring masses shuffling by. Go inside, sit in an overstuffed leather chair and watch sports programs on large, hi-def plasma sets with expensive sound systems. I am SO there. Yes, I belong to BJ's.

I recently went shopping at this exclusive membership club. Among the items on the flatbed livestock cart I was pushing around was a package of "alvin Kle" men's undershirts. I threw them on top of the cart and didn't think too much about it until I got over to the Beverage Village (zipcode 20716). There, as I was making selections from mountains of soda, I noticed someone checking out my cart. I am ever vigilant of those cart kidnappers - you know the ones who mistake your cart for theirs, dump all your stuff on the floor and make off with your cart - so I wandered back over to check things out. The stubbly-faced guy near my cart had a beer gut that made him appear to be with child, and he was dressed in deer-hunter garb, circa 1970. After a moment of awkward eye contact, he made that animal grunt men often use to cough up whatever bits of animal meat they have lodged in their sternums. Then he turned abruptly and headed off for the Truck Tire Village(zipcode 20782). Hm. What, exactly, was he looking at, I wondered? Then it hit me. alvin Kle! Turns out he was checking out the "package" on the undershirt package.

What is WITH that packaging? Picture some fat-cat marketing exec sitting at the head of a conference table, trying to motivate his team to design some killer packaging for their underwear brand. "Its gotta be big, see? When a man looks at my package, I want him to have an urge he can't resist! I want to arouse his interest! He can't resist having it, see? He is subconsciously drawn to my package." Long pause as nervous eyes glance around the table. Finally, someone timidly offers "Um... how about a hunky male model?"

See, I just don't understand the connection between men shopping for underwear, and hunky male models. Do they think I'm stupid enough to buy their product because I want to look like thier model? Puh-leeeze! Put a picture of a Harley Davidson on there, laced with the scent of beef stew. Or a Porsche 911 with a Heidi Klum hood ornament. Sure, I'd think it was silly, but that I would at least understand. Seriously? I'd prefer my underwear to come in a plain white package rubber stamped with bold, black letters - "MEN'S UNDERWEAR".

This is precisely why I won't shop at Abercrombie and Fitch anymore. Hey, don't laugh. I could shop there, if I wanted to. But last time I did, I had to endure the walk through the mall to the truck, toting a shopping bag with soft male-porn plastered all over both sides of it. What makes retailers think that guys want to see hunky man-junk all over their products? I mean, how about a waist-up shot, minus the close-up of the man-junk? Maybe I could live with that.

Another thing about men's underwear that I don't get. What is with those "tighty whities?" How can an adult look upon them kindly? At best, its panties for men. At worst, its boy's underwear in men's sizes. I mean, they should come with pictures of the Batmobile on them and a little pouch to hold your batarangs. I just don't get it. I mean, just LOOK at them!


Hm. Strangely, I have a sudden urge to buy more.

This week's accomplishments

The headmaster's been lax in his blogging lately. So much to do, so little energy to do it. He's been picking his battles carefully.

Every Thursday morning he lies in bed, staring at a cottage cheese ceiling that desperately needs updating. His mind shuffles the deck that represents his list of things overdue. He frets at how it grows thicker each day. It is a ponderous thing to shuffle.

That's usually when he hears the garbage truck, and remembers the pile of trash spilling out of the cans and into the parking lot.

I swear, I've lived here a little more than a year, and I don't think I've made trash day more than twice. So I'm on a first-name basis with the guys at the dump. We have an "arrangement". I bring them scrap copper from my rewiring project. They let me dump drywall without going through the scales.

This is dramatically different from the arrangement I had in our last house. There, I didn't take the trash out - I had "people" for that. I tipped the garbage truck guys generously at Christmas. In return, each Tuesday morning they'd actually go into my back yard to fetch my trash cans, and then they'd put them back neatly when they were done. Now that's what I call service! One year, I made the mistake of taping their Christmas cards (tips inside, bows outside) to the trash cans at the curb. Several weeks later, I caught up with them and checked to make sure they'd received the cards. They hadn't. So either they were after a double-tip, or some Grinch drives around Bowie looking for trash cans with bows on them. At any rate, I tipped twice, and continued to sleep in on Tuesday mornings.

So... back to the Academy. Thursday morning, I lay there and listened as the sounds of the trash truck slowly faded into the distance. Today, I paid the price. It is astonishing how much trash the Academy produces. To behold it, spread out in the parking lot, it invokes a sense of accomplishment. Standing by this trophy pile of trash, I sensed that my neighbor's passing nod was a bit more respectful than usual. It was a proud moment indeed.