The other day Emma was sniffing around and then she started acting like she didn’t feel well. She gave a few mighty hack heaves and out popped a stink bug. It was hilarious! The stink bug was in an indignant stance probably wondering what had happened. Unfortunately for that bug it went next to the toilet.
Emma vs. the Stink Bug
October 2, 2010
The ladies awoke early this morning and we dashed off into the cool morning at 4:20. Later, after they’d eaten and taken a little nap, at 7:00 we went to the dog park. Neither was too excited to be there so we only stayed a few minutes. The temperature hovered around 50 degrees which is pretty cool.
Only the Good Die Young
August 28, 2010
Only the good die young. We have heard the phrase before. What can we make of it? We watch the calamity of the world swirl around us. Poverty – pestilence – famine. We sit, aging as silent witnesses, living as those around us die. Are we not good?
The Immigration Debate (Part 1)
August 8, 2010
A few years ago when I was tearing through research material for my dissertation, I stumbled (because that is what often happens inside my head, stumbling) across an interesting idea. The subject of my research was a priest near mid-fifty who had been commissioned as an Army Chaplain in the 80s, 1880s that is, and sent to eastern Montana to serve at what was then Fort Keogh, near what is now Miles City. Father Lindesmith was his name, and he left behind a rich trove of evidence describing his experiences.
As a doctoral candidate I quickly learned to appreciate the gift Father Lindesmith, unbeknownst to him, had left for a graduate student seeking to close one of the final steps of his graduate student career. In essence, what he had done was provide a lot of the material that I needed to complete a substantial historical narrative. Father Lindesmith had left for me 90% of the grist I needed to make my mill work.
My challenge was twofold. The first was obvious: how to organize the narrative. The second was less obvious: how to examine Father Lindesmith’s evidentiary opus and place it in a broader historical analytic framework that addressed ongoing social science discussions and debates.
In my graduate school curriculum I had navigated through an interesting and compelling (at least for a nerd like me) array of topics: gender, race, ethnicity, class, etc. I had viewed these topics in what would end up being the fields for my doctoral work: modern U.S. history, immigration history, Modern Mexican history, and anthropology.
Saturday With the Ladies
August 7, 2010
After a blistering week it was very nice to wake up early and go for a walk in the 68 degree and un-humid morning. The ladies slept all night but woke up at 4:30. It’s just the three of us this weekend and we walked through the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, stopping to investigate sights and sounds of the day coming to light. We walked for about 45 minutes, returned home, and had breakfast. Of course, they fell back to sleep immediately after finishing their chow. Later, we went to the dog park and left just as trouble was brewing between a rottweiler and a hound. We’re home now and they are “chasing rabbits” in their dreams.
Punch and a Scary Thud
July 31, 2010
Today when we were going down into the Gallery Place Metro stop we saw two men exchanging words. One of the men moved closer to the other and landed a punch squarely on the other’s chin. The man who was hit fell straight back and hit his head on the concrete wall at the bottom of the escalator. A couple of people stopped to see if the man who had fallen was ok and we ran to the station manager’s kiosk to tell him what had happened. Three Metro Transit officers were nearby and took off to look for the man who had thrown the punch. The sound of the man’s head hitting the wall was scary. We thought for sure he had been seriously injured. By the time we returned to the scene of the fight he was gone.
Heck of a Week
July 30, 2010
It was one heck of a week, punctuated by the extremely oppressive heat and the purchase of a new vehicle. So, the ladies have a new car, a truck actually, and the temperature seems to have returned to a normal state. Things can only go up from here.
Trip to WV
July 23, 2010
Was in West Virginia for two days for work. The town we were in was nice and quiet and a good break from the maddening crush of Washington DC.
The Melancholy of the Road
July 16, 2010
For some reason, driving always puts me in melancholy mood. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s from driving on those long stretches of desolate road out west, thinking about the twists and turns my life had taken up to that point. I remember one day in particular, stopping at the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, getting out of the car, and walking across the sunny windswept landscape where so many souls had been dispatched to their creator’s judgment.
I walked away from the small group of tourists, who were listening to the park ranger’s monotone narrative about the swirling confusion of the clash, and examined the artifacts marking the positions of the fallen. As I separated more and more from my fellow visitors, I became keenly aware of a flock of crows that were noisily circling the site in an aerial brannigan, letting out caws and cries of admonishment as they jockeyed for position in their social hierarchy. I turned behind me to watch the display and noticed that the sky was darkening.
Suddenly, I realized that I was alone and that the crows were circling me, increasing the volume of their cacophony and tightening the radius of their formation directly above me. By then the sky was completely dark. I turned to my front again and found that one of the crows–a raven sized giant–had landed on a marker directly in front of me.
The bird jutted its head toward me and slowly opened its huge beak. Caw! Caw! It cried, looking directly at me as if to warn with its cry and posture that I was crossing a forbidden spiritual threshold. My sense of what I was experiencing heightened as the wind turned frigid and seemed to push me toward the crow.
I stood transfixed for a moment, attempting to fathom the significance of the encounter, looking for a hint in coal-black coldness of the giant crow’s eyes. Caw! It warned again menacingly. An icy blast of air buffeted the crow and ruffled the tiny feathers that strayed from the tight cohesiveness of the native sheen of its pelt.
Then abruptly, the giant crow righted itself, extended its wings, and looked around. The crows circling above stopped their chatter and scattered out of site. Faintly, then louder and louder, the ranger’s voice could be heard approaching. I turned toward the sound of the ranger’s voice and saw that the sky was clearing.
To my rear I heard the powerful downward flap of the giant crow’s wings as it thrust into hastened flight. Turning back toward where the crow was, I saw a sleek mass of black hurtling toward me with shiny claws extended. Instinctively, I ducked, covering my face with my arm just as the crow reached me, brushing me as it shot past, climbing and circling back toward where the sky’s darkness remained but was rapidly fading. In a few moments the giant crow was gone from sight.
I returned to my car a little shaken by my encounter convinced that I had crossed paths with an ancient spirit, who wanted an outlet to the present through a solitary traveler. I drove south as the day faded and pondered the depth of my solitude. The sun set on the vast road ahead of me and the object of my journey and the blackness enveloped me.
Sitting at Logan
July 14, 2010
I am sitting at the airport in the gate area waiting for my flight home to Washington, DC. I can’t help but think of the images captured on surveillance video of the September 11th hijackers walking through the security checkpoint. Today, the TSA agents behaved like you would expect them to, like people who can’t and won’t get appreciation no matter what. I feel bad for them. They have a thankless job.
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