Is my book really that racy??


Today, my ten year old grandson and I worked at the gift shop at a nearby state park.  We worked the 1-5 afternoon shift.  At first it was quite busy and the main attraction was the Native American made jewelry.  We do show a fabulous collection with some unique pieces.  One woman bought more than 500 dollars worth.  It is difficult to work there in respect to the books and the jewelry–we have a LOT of both.  We are all volunteers, we get a discount but do not get paid.  So much to want!!

Two members of the organization which supports the gift shop have their books on display in the shop for sale.  Over a month ago, I left my most recent book of poetry (see the side bar for the cover and yes, you can buy it from this site or Amazon) for the manager to read.  I have known the manager for years.  In fact he painted (he is an artist as well and Native American himself) the corn plant on my wall next to where I am writing this.  I thought probably since the others sold their books there, I could do the same.  I realized that one of the books is a collection of poetry specifically about Palo Duro Canyon so it “belongs” there.  However, the other one has absolutely nothing to do with the Canyon.  When I saw the manger, I asked him what he thought about the book and the store selling it.  He seemed a bit astounded that I had written it and commented that I certainly had a lot of talent.  He had taken the book home and it was not at the store.  However, when I asked about selling it there, he said he was working on it.  Apparently, and in some ways not totally to my surprise, he is afraid some of the other members would find it too shocking, too racy.  Really?!  Maybe I should have encouraged one of the blurb writers to say something racy, maybe I should advertise differently.  Racy sells more books.

Lazy Day and Dinner


Cool and cloudy reigned today.  Now tornado warnings west of here glide across the TV screen I’ve turned on mute.  About now, the severe thunderstorms are supposed to start.  A repeat of yesterday when I took these photos from my patio.

 

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Fed Rosie earlier to beat the predicted storm, swept the dirt and little rocks from yesterday’s storm off the drive, and strolled around to get some exercise.  After several hectic days of no cooking, decided to cook something vegetarian.

1 medium sized purple onion coarsely chopped

6 medium brussels sprouts cut in half

1/2 large red bell pepper coarsely chopped

1 teaspoon chana masala (East Indian spice)

1 teaspoon berbere (Ethiopian spice)

Olive oil

Pour enough olive oil in 8-10 inch skillet to cover the bottom.  Saute the onions in the oil until translucent.  Add the brussels sprouts and spices.  Stir and cook until the brussels sprouts are cooked but still crisp.  Add the red pepper and sauté.  Do not over cook.  Serve over Jasmine rice.

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Not quite ready but almost.

 

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Berbere on left sent from Ethiopia by my friend’s mother.

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Jasmine rice ready to serve.  Here is how I cook the rice:

Pour enough olive oil in the bottom of the saucepan to barely cover it.  Add 1 heaping tsp. finely chopped garlic and briefly sauté.  Add one cup rice (here I used white but sometimes I mix red, black and white evenly) and sauté a little bit more.  Add two cups water and 1 tsp. vegetarian bouillon (I prefer Better Than Bouillon).  Stir and cover with several paper towels or one thick tea towel.  Place lid on top and turn down to low.  Cook 1/2 hour if using only white rice.  Other rice requires double the time.

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The finished product ready to eat.

 

Now I am going back to reading while awaiting the lightning and thunder.  About 1/3 way through a light but entertaining read:  “Coyote Cowgirl” by Kim Antieau.

 

A New Day


Guessing today’s post will be written in pieces.  It is now 11:55 in the morning and this is at least a start.  Yesterday, a friend posted this on Facebook.  Its message appealed to me so much that I downloaded it because I wanted to post it here:

 

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A lot of young people and even older ones seem to struggle to discover who they are, what they stand for, their life’s purpose or even if they have one.  Not me.  Somehow, in spite of struggles as to the best way to express it, I always knew. In some ways, I think I owe this knowledge to my parents who always accepted and encouraged ME to be ME.  In fact, my current work relates closely to what I said I wanted to be when I was in high school:  a college professor, actually a philosophy professor.  I teach high school now.  Yes, about my third career or maybe even fourth, but my first real one was a college administrator.  When I received my BA in English first in my class, my professors tried to talk me into going to grad school in literature.  At that time, English professors were the proverbial a dime a dozen so I went to grad school and studied higher education administration.  Later, I almost went to law school–was accepted at several good ones, but grad school gave me money so I did that.  If I had to do it over?  I would go to law school.  I would have made a great kick butt lawyer because I don’t give a damn what people think except for one thing.  I do not want others to think I’m stupid, but that never occurs so I need not worry.  Regardless, I feel happy with my life and my work, really happy.

12:25 am Guess it is technically tomorrow.  About fifteen minutes ago, I returned home from a party at the house of my friend from Ethiopia.  Guests included many Ethiopians and also a number of people born here and lots of Ethiopian food.  Since I am going there in less than a month, I will then be providing more reports on food, including my experiences in learning how to make some of it.

I had to run in the rain to get to my vehicle when I left their house.  Running in the rain is not a common experience here.  Weather has gone from drought to day after day of rain.  Apparently, a part of my house thinks it is too much because I found a small lake in part of my bedroom when I returned home.  Therefore, instead of hopping into bed, I have been mopping up water.  Now I am waiting on five bath towels to go through the spin cycle so I can mop some more.  Repairmen are going to have fun trying to locate the leak.  My guess is it not where one might think.  Oh, the joys of home ownership.

Mop time.

What day is it?


Probably only school teachers and students will relate, but since school was out a couple of days ago, I have to really think to know what day it is.  You would think I could remember because today is a busy day and last night’s sleep was interrupted by lightning, tornadoes, crashing rain, and hail.  Tonight they predict more of the same.  I live out in the country; I cannot hear the tornado sirens going off.  About 1:30 am, my daughter calls from her basement in town.  The tornado sirens had gone off and she and my grandson had gone to the basement. Honestly, hail worries me more than the threat of  a tornado because hail is relatively common here.  Little hail won’t destroy my steel roof or break the numerous banks of windows in my house, but large hail…I don’t want to even think about it, especially since the company from which I bought all these windows went bankrupt.

It’s humid, really humid.  We here in semiarid country are not used to humid.  Feels like you cannot quite ever get dry.  Clouds come and go and I am guessing tonight will be a repeat of last night.  I do not need a weather forecaster to tell me that.  But it’s green, really green, emerald green, an infrequent site here too much of the time.  At least, I won’t have to worry bout wildfires like I did two weeks ago.

My daughter was called in to work–she’s a nurse, my grandson is eating a grilled cheese sandwich–I use artisan bread and cook it in olive oil.  Gives grilled cheese a whole new meaning.  In two hours we will go to friend’s house to visit with her dad who arrived from Mexico for a vacation.  I will have to use my Spanish; he speaks no English.  Last night he called me on the phone.  He talks fast and I am a bit lost.  It’s easier in person.  Then we will pick up my grandson’s older brother, we will take grandson to soccer practice, take him home and finally older brother and I will be off to a concert we know nothing about (an adventure) and to Art Walk.  Art Walk occurs the first Friday evening every month.  You would think I would remember what day it is.

Immigrants


Since teaching senior English is my new teaching assignment, I started reading books I have not read that were short listed for the Man Booker Prize.  The first, which I just finished, is We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo.  I marked two quotes that hold special relevance for me for very different reasons.  The first one:  “And besides, I’ve been getting all As in everything, even maths and science, the subjects I hate, because school is so easy in America even a donkey could pass.”  I laughed out loud when I read this.  Talk to many students born here and you would think school is hopelessly challenging.  Last school year and for many before, I taught math, algebra 1 and geometry mostly.  Half do not know their multiplication tables which makes teaching them how to factor polynomials quite a challenge or at least a lot harder.  Ask something truly simple, “What is 1/3 of 3?”  They stare and shrug.

In the past six years, four exchange students have lived with me, two from Thailand, one from Brazil, and one from Argentina.  They all took math, including AP calculus for one.  For all of them, English was a second or third or fourth language.  One commented that except for trying to read Beowulf and Canterbury Tales (they were all seniors and senior English is British literature), it was quite easy compared to school at home.  Two of them took either AP or honors classes.  Parents here complain that school is too hard, there is too much homework.  Really??  I chat with my friends from countries in Asia, the Middle East, Africa, South America.  I listen to my students and I cannot help but wonder what will become of this country if we do not have immigrants.  Yet, many citizens complain about immigrants.  These same complainers often lack the skills to get the best jobs, to rise upward in part because learning these skills is hard work.

The other quote illustrates just how difficult it is to come here from a war torn or violent or economically depressed country you love but must leave and how angry some who feel stuck there may feel.  “Just tell me one thing.  What are you doing not in your own country right now?  Why did you run off to America…Why did you just leave?  If it’s your country, you have to love it to live in it and not leave it.  You have to fight for it no matter what, to make it right.  Tell me, do you abandon your house because it’s burning or do you find water to put out the fire?  And if you leave it burning, do you expect the flames to turn into water and put themselves out?  You left it…you left the house burning…”

I cannot imagine how to respond, how to feel.  I am from here, have always lived here except for one brief stay elsewhere.  Traveling even with friends and family from another country simply is not the same.  Amarillo is a large refuge center with displaced people from Sudan, Myanmar, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and many other places. Even those with degrees often must work at horrid menial jobs others rarely want, e.g. killing and butchering livestock.  One of my good friends teaches English at a nearby high school.  She has one class in which only one student is a native English speaker.  Although I can read and speak some Spanish, I think just how difficult it would be to learn history and literature in Spanish.  I look at my house and know 100 % that without immigrant labor, I would not have this house.

If you live in the United States and are not 100 per cent Native American, you are either an immigrant yourself or the child of immigrants. Many have forgotten what their immigrant ancestors knew.  Perhaps they need to remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos from a late spring evening


After completing the horse chores, I decided to take a walk and photograph the new green.  This time two weeks ago, everything except the juniper trees was brown and dry.  Some of the native bushes had not even shown their usual spring leaves.  Many plants in arid and semi-arid environments lie dormant until the rains come.  Five inches in five days transformed the landscape here.  And it brought out hordes of mosquitoes, but that’s another story.

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A wildflower, sundrops, a type of primrose, grows in even dry hard soil as you can see here.

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A few sundrops had even come out before the rain, but many more are visible now.

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Hard to believe the sudden greenness.  What a difference water makes.

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Three species of juniper grow where I live.  Some people have told me these trees are hundreds of years old.

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Looking across the canyon from my house I see various cavelike places such as the one here.  Great places for the foxes, coyotes, and bobcats to live.

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Blackfoot daisies, tough, drought tolerant, enduring, a favorite because they grow everywhere and anywhere all summer.  When they appear among flowers and bushes I have actually planted, I just leave them there.  They provide a kind of perky joy.

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Green everywhere and they predict thunderstorms for the next several days.  At 100 degrees today, the green would not last long without more rain.

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These little red spots appeared in clusters here and there everywhere as I strolled around.  I think they are the beginnings of a plant but I have no idea what.

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Both lavender and catmint do well here.  In the background last year thyme spread everywhere, but for the first time in several years, it died out over the winter.

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Mexican bird of paradise, also called desert bird of paradise, is one of my favorites.  This is just the beginning of a truly spectacular bloom.

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In the background Greek oregano grows.  Along my rock retaining wall Mediterranean plants seem to grow well.

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Blackfoot daisies growing in native grass.  All this was brown except for the daisies two weeks ago.

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Most of the flowers which do well here or are wild seem to be purple or yellow.  Salvia does well, but it is barely in bloom.

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A type of dalea, this very drought tolerant shrub grows everywhere wild around my place.  If there is no rain, it does nothing and looks dead.

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This is another plant that looked dead two weeks ago and then suddenly a couple of day ago came out in full bloom.  I have looked through two wildflower books and still remain uncertain as to the name of this plant.  If some reader out there knows, please email me the name or comment on this post.

Living here on the rim of wonder gives me great joy.

Large Lakes of the Sahara


Who knew?  In the literal middle of nowhere in Chad several large lakes still provide fresh water to the few animals and people who live there.  Salt water lakes reside in many deserts worldwide, but not freshwater lakes.  The May/June 2014 issue of Saudi Aramco World both astonished and enlightened me.  These lakes are not mere oases, but really large lakes, the Lakes of Ounianga.  In 2012, all eighteen of them became part of World Heritage sites.

Each lake remains different, some interconnected, some fresh water, some saline.  They are 500 miles from the nearest large body of water, Lake Chad.  To get there, you must use four wheel drive or ride a camel.  In 2001 and 2002 not far from these lakes, the fossils of extremely ancient hominids were found, hominids who lived seven million years ago, potential precursors to modern humans and chimpanzees.  Here and there camels graze in sand nearly devoid of vegetation. Near these lakes lush foliage grows, green gems in the middle of miles of varying shades of endless brown.  One of the lakes’ water is red from the algae growing in it sometimes several inches thick.  Frogs croak.

Once upon a time long ago, this Sahara grew savanna grass where the wildlife we associate with other parts of Africa lived–elephants, giraffe, hippos, antelopes, and the now extinct auroch.  Lake Boukou holds fresh water, crystalline, pure.  Around this lake one can find ancient stone hammers and scrapers dating from half a million years ago.  Because of evaporation in the dry heat, one would expect these lakes to become increasingly saline.  Only one of the eleven lakes in this area is saline. How is this possible?

Under the Sahara lies the world’s largest fossil-water aquifer beneath the countries of Chad, Sudan, Egypt, and Libya.  The maximum depth is 12,800 feet. This acquifer supplies the Lakes of Ounianga.  The mats of reeds and algae on top of the fresh water lakes keep their evaporation rate low and their water fresh.  Once these lakes covered vast distances.  Researchers use diatomic soil to study the changes in the lakes over centuries.  Diatoms are the remains of microscopic sea creatures that turn into ivory or white soil.  Studying these soils enable scientists to date the age of the lakes to approximately 6000 years ago.  Once researchers thought the Sahara suddenly became a desert about 5000 years ago, but new data reveal a more gradual change to desert taking thousands of years and only becoming the desert we know more recently.  Research around the lakes will prove important to understanding climate change and its causes.

Currently fifteen clans live in Ounianga.  These people believe their ancestors came out of the lakes when they were one giant lake surrounded with date palms.  Core studies (scientists take a core sample of the soil–in this case 16 meters) indicate that date palms came rather late in the area’s millennial history.  They have also found the roots of reeds and even trees dating back to approximately 8000 years ago.  Their goal is to drill even deeper.  Heat (122 degrees F) make this a long, torrid task, but the scientists dedicated to learning the story of these incredible lakes and the Sahara press on.

 

 

Notes:  Saudi Aramco World is one of my favorite magazines, filled with fabulous photos, historical articles, recipes, and endless fascinating information.  This issue also included an article about the Muslim Tartars who live in Poland today.  You can subscribe  by adding your name to their free subscription list.

Diatomaceous earth is found in many places.  I feed it to my horses to prevent parasites.  It is used in cleaners and even tooth paste.

Not a Good Day to Die


Not a Good Day to Die.  No, I did not write this but it made me smile, really smile.  I am still smiling.  If you have elderly parents, please read.  If you do not but someday will, please read.

 

The author is a fellow board member of the Story Circle Network.

 

Juliana

Teaching English for a change


Years ago, four day before school started, the principal informed me that I was going to teach freshmen English and a special course for all these juniors and seniors who had passed the state test but not one single English class.  The goal–we were on a quarter system then:  teach a year of English per quarter or at least do that for the seniors.  Of course, everyone knew that if I did the traditional curriculum, such a thing would prove impossible.  I took a look at the students.  Smart (at least some of them), rebellious, lazy, unmotivated, potheads probably–some openly admitted it, and various combinations of these sorts of things.  For fun the previous summer, I had taken a week long course on how to teach junior Advanced Placement English–I know, a strange idea of fun, but I loved it.  Four days gave me little time to prepare so I decided I would use the freshman book for the freshmen, but incorporate what I had learned in the AP English course.  For this other special class, I decided to try some really different tactics, including starting with a really different book than any had probably ever read.  Because of the language–swear words in Spanish for starters, and because of the topics, e.g. prison, it seemed necessary to get the permission from the head of the English department.  The book:  A Place to Stand by Jimmy Santiago Baca, one of my all time favorite books and a superb example of figurative language.  The department head gave permission much to my astonishment–she must have taken a look at the students and decided anything was worth a try.  The students actually read ahead, looked the author up online, found out he was giving a reading in Santa Fe and contacted him. We did go to Santa Fe for the reading and actually had lunch with him and his wife and baby–who would now be a teenager or nearly so.  One of the students who went contacted me a couple of months ago to tell me he still had a signed copy of one of Baca’s books.

After that year, I taught math for years–algebra, geometry.  Occasionally, I even cotaught chemistry or remedial science for those who had not passed the state test.  About three weeks ago, the new principal called me in and asked me what I wanted to teach.  I said English.  He asked me how about senior English?!  Next school year I will be teaching British literature.  Now, I am trying to think how to make Beowulf and Canterbury Tales readable and exciting.  I was told I could also incorporate modern British literature so I started looking at the Man Booker (sort of like a British and former British colonies version of the Pulitzer or something of that sort) short list.  Much to my astonishment, I have read a lot of the authors on this list, but mostly those from the colonies like Nigeria and India.  Now I am reading We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo.  This book won the Pen Hemingway and was short listed for the Man Booker.  Probably more familiar authors for many readers would be names like Iris Murdoch, Doris Lessing, Amitav Ghosh, and Kiran Desai.  If any of you who read this blog have others suggestions for modern British literature, send me the names.  The students may be in a temporary  (or longer) state of shock when they find out they really do have to read, but they will get over it and might even discover its fun.

Una Bella Famiglia


Yesterday evening, I felt honored to cook dinner for this wonderful family from the mountains of  Italy.  Lisa, the daughter, has been living with friends as an exchange student.  Lisa had been to my house several times with her host parents and ridden Rosie.  This week her parents, grandparents on her mother’s side, and her younger brother came to see her high school graduation Friday evening.  Last night they all came to my house.  Lisa speaks fluent English, her parents and grandfather some, but her grandmother very little.  They do understand Spanish so I spoke Spanish to her grandmother, some Spanish to everyone else, some English, and, of course, everyone spoke bits and pieces of Italian or all Italian.

Grandfather Corrado smiled and laughed and hugged.  When he was younger, he was ranked fifth in the world in cross country skiing.  He spent much of his life, more than thirty years, in Germany making and selling ice cream.  We did have ice cream for dessert–vanilla with Chambord on top.

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Corrado drinking sangiovese from a local winery, BarZ, with Jeannette, the host mom of Lisa. Later, we had another bottle of sangiovese from a different winery, DiVine Wine.

 

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They explained they drink wine every day so they felt right at home at my house.  Lisa, in the Abercrombe T-shirt with her dad, Benedetto, next to her.  And yes, that is Corrado smiling down there on the end.

 

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Benedetto in the white shirt claimed that the sangiovese here seemed stronger than at home.  Claudia, Lisa’s Mom appears to be explaining something, but I do not recall what.  Grandmother Angelina is on her right and younger brother Antonio at the far right edge.  Everyone seems enthralled.  Benedetto is an architect.

 

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From left to right, Lisa, Benedetto, me, and Claudia.  They felt right at home with my dog Isabella; she has an Italian name.

 

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Everyone agreed to eat dinner on the patio–and you were thinking all we planned to do is drink wine.  The menu:  brisket, roasted vegetables (red and purple potatoes, brussel sprouts, Anaheim peppers, carrots, onions roasted with lots of olive oil, basil, oregano, and herbes de Provence), green salad and bread with chunks of garlic in it.

 

 

There is nothing better than eating and relaxing with friends and family.  And what a beautiful family!!  Laughter, hugs.  How could one not enjoy all the hugs and kisses on both cheeks.

 

 

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They had ridden horses in Palo Duro Canyon and hiked there earlier in the day, attended several graduation parties, and played volleyball.  Antonio seemed very tired.  He is 13.

 

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Richard, the host dad, relaxes in the bar stool while his daughter takes photos with his camera.  A deer eventually showed up across the canyon.

This lovely Italian family lives way in the north of Italy in Cortina d’Ampezzo.  Claudia explained they work seven days a week during the seven month tourist season–it is skiing country, and then they like to travel.  This evening as I write this they have headed to New York City by minivan via St. Louis and Falling Waters–Corrado really wants to see this Frank Lloyd Wright house.  I feel so honored to have met them.  Una bella famiglia–a beautiful family.