chestnuts and jellies

In the late afternoon, after classes were done with, I engaged in a (frenzied?) email exchange about happiness. It was one of those one-upmanship things: who is more likely to search, and therefore find happiness – my email-respondent or me?

You aren’t entirely serious when you write about this sort of stuff. In fact, most people shrivel and hide if anyone even asks them about their happiness (what does it mean? there’s no such thing, etc etc). But insofar as we were able to conclude anything during this particular exchange, it was that he had small fluctuations (a little happy, a little sad) and I had great ones (a lot happy and less frequently for sure, a lot sad) and it all added up to pretty much the same bowlful of happiness.

But then we zeroed in to the heart of the matter: can a person who is a little this a little that ever fully appreciate the singular joy that comes with great friendship? Parenthood? Love? Companionship? An adorable Torts class?

I don’t get “little joys” people. My writer friend states: “if the chestnut is gone, there’s always a sweet potato.” (Meaning, there’s always something.) Well yes, but I am not ashamed to admit that I have a hierarchy of preferences on what foods I will place in front of me. Ahead of the pack come my two little chestnuts out in NHaven. It’s a given. But after that, I will chase down a truckload of foods before I settle for the sweet potato.

I look for them, I spend time on them. My friend says (by now the discussion has shifted to the phone) “I’m not a “more” person. I don’t need even more than I already have.” My heart goes out for you. More love and greater happiness seem infinitely better than an average amount. And why waste time on the potato, on the gray sky, on inertia, on fear of failure, when you can indulge yourself and revel in a heart-wrenchingly beautiful sunrise right there, outside your window, or a plateful of jellies at a café around the corner? But you need to crave them and expect to find them. Such joy when you do!




this afternoon, around the corner, at Jo's



this morning, out the loft window

(this post is dedicated to commenters no. 6 & 7 from the previous post)

Hey you! I know you love the Midwest. I know that you are not living here for reasons that have nothing to do with your feelings for this place. But come on, surely you do not miss days like today! Read on:

This morning it is confirmed. What touched my face with wet slobberishness late last night turned into an icy cold dusting of snow this morning.

Some people, whom I have heretofore considered reasonable human beings, actually claim a fondness for this shift in climate (from nice to awful). I sort of don’t believe them. Show your love! Join me out there in barren expanse of snow, ice and frozen earth!

And yet, and yet, I want to challenge myself. I have time. The Torts class doesn’t convene until noon. I am going to peddle my way to the countryside! Mr. B, you and I are going to love this Wisconsin blast of cold air if it kills us!

It nearly does. The temperature is hovering around twenty, the windchill is in the single digits or less. There are icy patches on the road and the wind is kicking up a nice 30 mph gust as I push against it, heading south.



(on Lake Monona, looking bewildered by the sudden freeze)

First, my nose disappears off my face. I can’t feel it, so it must be gone. Then my fingers, wrapped in Austrian leather (you guys mustn’t get the winters we do, is all I can say), freeze lovingly around the B. handlebars.

Ten minutes into the ride I do a nice 180 degree turn and head back toward the Square.

What I need is not a one-on-one with nature, but a one-on-one with a warm café. Preferably a welcoming space, painted in golden yellow tones. With gorgeous warm burgundy throw pillows. And a copper bar. Oh and please, find me a place with beautiful photos hung on the walls. A family-run café, where I can give the owners a hello kiss, because, you know, that’s how it’s done in glowing places where the espresso rocks and the croissants rule. Just one more request – a name that warms my soul on this cold November day.



Cafe Soleil

I am filled with love and good will. My adorable Torts class needs a pick-me-up as much as I do: load up the boxes with croissants, brioche, and chocolate squares.

Later in the afternoon, I set out home. Mr. B is grunting at me. Yesterday rain, today snow. I can hardly push him against the strong winds. I am undaunted: you will make it, so will I. You’re tougher than tough. Me, I’m just plain tough.

But I know our limits. I do want to see the fields dusted with snow. I want to take a look at the dogwoods and birches against the fresh powder coating the ground. But let’s be real here. I like the feel of my nose and fingers. I am resigned. I leave Mr. B at the loft, dust off the car keys and head out.



construction workers, heading home



outside the city: less snow, serene landscapes

Rain

I called my mother today to wish her a happy birthday. She thanked me and mentioned in a by the way fashion that one way of becoming a millionaire would be to set aside money otherwise spent on lattes at Starbucks. I did not correct her misconception as to where I purchase my lattes.

But I did change my coffee source for the day, moving from the Electric Earth Café to Joe’s, to avoid EE’s long wait, as most before you in line order sandwiches and other foods requiring great thought and deliberation.

At Joe’s, not only did I spend $2.95 + $.35 tip, but I put the latte into the new gizmo I attached to Mr. B so that I could transport the cup and myself safely back to the loft each day. Juggling a steaming latte in my hand while crossing the railroad tracks and making sharp turns proved tricky, so I plunked down some bucks on a nifty yellow wire thing. No, of course it is not intended to hold down your latte, though I noted with some satisfaction that is was made in Italy. Fitting, considering Mr.B’s own Italian heritage.




You might pick up from the photo that Mr. B is wet. I had neglected to take an umbrella in the morning and so I had my first taste of thirties temps, with rain and puddles throwing water against the black tights and the striped skirt number I chose to wear to work today, it being a heavy teaching day and this particular getup being my most ancient and resilient dress-up outfit, suitable for a November bike ride.

My mother did not mention the blog in the course of our talk. This was wise of her. Last time she noted it, in a letter to me, it was in a troubling context. I’m not sure she is entirely on board with the whole blogging phenomenon (an understatement, truly a whopper understatement) and most certainly she is not on board with her daughter blogging away as if there was no tomorrow.

Instead she talked about prescription drugs and Berkeley weather. She mentions California weather with frequency in winter months and especially when Madison’s weather is as it is today – cold, wet, dismally gray.

But in fact, I do not mind today’s rain. I have skylights at the loft and the rain against the roof here makes such a racket that a friend remarked recently that there must be no insulation up there. We looked up and indeed, it appears as if there are boards and then roof and then, well, sky.

Rain is not much of a factor in daily suburban life. When my daughters were little, they had slickers that were cuter than cute – with yellow ducks and blue polka dots. Their grandmother bought them the slickers and I took many photos so that their cuteness is forever recorded and future generations will maybe see the albums and say things like – wow, they wore cute slickers in those days.

But the fact is, they never wore them. Because slickers make sense only if you walk or bike in the rain. They do not make sense if you get in and out of cars and take a few steps through the parking lot to reach your destination.

I notice rain now, as I notice most everything about each day with an added twist of a sharper focus. I notice which sidewalks have cracks and which corners gather water in big puddles. I notice the color of the sky and I fully expect to go out and smell the wetness after the rain stops. I also notice when I am being snappish and when I am being calm and reasonable – as for example when talking to my mother in Berkeley today.

It’s too bad I did not notice the chestnuts in the oven last night before I fell asleep. FYI, chestnuts do not need 4 hours at 400 degrees to roast to a proper eating consistency.

Monday vignettes

I received a gift of chestnuts. I roasted some here, at the loft, yesterday. Some are at this moment baking. With the gift came these words: they are fattening. Is it better then not to eat them, demonstrating strong will and determination, or is it that someone wants me to fess up that I can have porker inclinations? Okay, you win: I have porker inclinations.

*****

Finally I get around to mailing an on-line purchase back to the original store. Don’t want it, wont keep it. But wait! You can no longer throw packages with return items into USPS mail repositories. Anything weighing over a pound has to be processed at the station. I take it to the postal station. There I am subjected to additional security precautions. Someone asks me: is there something illegal or dangerous in here? I say no. The package gets tossed into the outgoing bin. I feel safer.

*****

Someone said to me recently (we’re talkin’ days) “you are insane” and then proceeded to explain how in America, thems not fighting words.

*****

I always thought that the distribution of turkey meat on the Thanksgiving turkey is odd. There’s not enough white meat (which everyone wants because, you know, it’s so much less fattening, never mind that everything else you eat that day is, well, fattening). Last year I “mistakenly” ordered only the breast of the turkey. Today I picked up the following message on the cell: rumors have reached me that you are again contemplating the purchase of only a turkey breast. Don’t go there. I will personally eat both turkey legs just to convince you that the whole bird is the way to go. Wow. There’s whole bird dedication for you. Not enough that it is a Whole Foods bird. Has to be whole. It will be whole.

*****

A friend in Cambridge (MA) wrote this yesterday: I am to have lunch with (K) tomorrow. At the very least I can anticipate witty conversation. I wrote back that I never ever have witty luncheon conversation. I mean, when was the last time?

*****

Nothing is as richly satisfying as a bar of Green & Blacks organic darker shade of milk chocolate milk chocolate. Nothing. Make of that what you will.

who has seen the wind?

(very early Sunday) I want to go to Parfrey’s Glen today.
(I get a stare for that one. As well I should. It is cold outside. November cold. High winds, gray skies, an occasional release of rain.)
Wouldn’t you rather wait until there is a light coating of snow? Come on, wait for it: better contrast, better photos…

No.
Okay, I suppose you can compare the contrast then and now. Okay… At least it wont be crowded…

Oh, it sure isn’t crowded. Driving there, the wind whips the car around. Maybe it is hinting at something? Like: you are nuts! Stay home!





On the way we pass a small town. The kind that has one main street and then not much of anything. And that is assuming that the main street can be called much of anything.

You want to stop at a bakery? It’s not terrific. Not your éclair and napoleon type bakery.
(Why do people assume I am such a food snob?)
I happen to like all sorts of decently baked goods! (Even though none are to be found around here. Why aren't there any decently baked goods around here? Okay, I am a baked goods food snob.)

In a small town bakery: chocolate ducks (so says the sign) and sticky buns.





Parfrey’s Glen.

Hey, older daughter (this is in a subsequent conversation), I know I have never taken you to Parfrey’s Glen, but I was wondering, have you ever been there anyway?
On a school trip, a long time ago.

I thought I went on every darn school trip ever suggested to me! Except for the cave one. I refused to go on that. Deliberately. Can you imagine something more claustrophobic than crawling behind some teacher’s butt down a narrow tunnel with (inevitably, one would think) some kid screaming - help! I’m stuck! ???

Parfrey’s Glen. Rock formations, trees, and the creek that runs through it.


















So tell me, you seem like you're such an outdoors nut -- have you really turned your back on camping?
The woods, the ravines, the streams, they don’t have Wi-Fi, do they?


Afterwards we pick up the Ice Age trail. I still don’t get it. It is not a trail that leads you to the Ice Age. It is not altogether clear to me if it leads you to much of anything. Google it all you want. I am satisfied that it is a trail that somehow weaves its way through Wisconsin and you can walk it or not, but if you do, you will not be sorry.





A gray and blustery Sunday in Wisconsin. Winds blowing, trees dancing.

Strains of Borodin

The semester is nearly finished. Oh, not for the students. For them, life must be measured not by classes to be taught, but the exams to be written.

But for me, it’s almost done.

And the students will move on. They branch, settle into spaces and places that match their dispositions.

The Adorable Torts Section will disperse and I will never hear from half of them again.

But occasionally there'll be an email from one, a year or two later, announcing some turn of events, some milestone, or, simply, some concert.

And I go and listen and I think – wow! I’m glad I never heard her play before. I may have urged her to give up this law stuff and return to a full time commitment to cello.



April F-S, Torts 2004

to have and to hold

No talking, you hear? We are in a bookstore café. The rules are different. A voice has the power to disturb. Shhhhh!

I am at Borders. God, I miss this place. I wish it had moved downtown with me. Mr. B rests in the familiar rack, watching me from the outside as I pile books on a table and take a deeply satisfying swig of a tame Borders latte.

I open the first book. Something is not right though. I hear voices, damn it! At the table next to mine, someone is talking. Why aren’t they getting the evil glare from others? Why this tolerance for a clear violation of café norms? Ah. It is obvious. People are eavesdropping.

At first I only hear fragments. Something about Eau Claire. And cell phones. Someone doesn’t like cell phones. Okay, I don’t really like cell phones either. I look up.

Two women with veils around their heads and a man in ordinary, nondescript clothes. Mother, daughter, guy….oh! he is a candidate for the position of husband to the young woman!

What would it be like to have my mother there with me to interview prospective husband material? Her choice would not be my choice. Indeed, my choice initially was not her choice, only sometime in the middle of it all, she really got into my choice, even as my choice and I were no longer so convinced we were sufficiently into each other's choices.

The mother at the table is pressing the young man on issues of work, especially the work of the woman. He’s fumbling. He talks of respect for women in their various capacities, though he is quick to point out that it is his deepest hope that a woman would stay close to the family. It is her specialty.

I’m hearin’ you, brother! Families are good. Aprons are good. Strings tied in bows are good too. She is awfully silent though. And her face is expressionless. I have a feeling she wants to slap him one.

Finally she speaks. She brings up the name of an author and she describes his position on some issue or other. Hard to follow here. I know neither the author not the issue. But her argument is fluid, impeccably stated. The young man grunts a couple of times. Clearly he has nothing to say on this. Clearly she is smarter, at least in the bookish sense. Clearly she is going to wind up with this schmuck who somehow is convinced that his stories are better and his jokes are funnier.

Exit interviews conducted at Borders café this afternoon: oh miss, did you think his jokes were funnier and his intellect sharper than hers? No… Okay, just wondering.

Now he is explaining his position on religious practices. You are so stammering here, dude! Why didn’t you rehearse this one? Not hard to get it in a coherent sentence: you’re pro this stuff, against that – what’s the big deal? I can not make heads nor tails from what you are muttering. Of course, that may be deliberate. Fool them into thinking that you are without judgment, without preconception and then slam them with a biggie as soon as the ring is fitted.

He is against taking time to decide on this issue of a mate. Why keep on talking when you know pretty much from the first conversation if this is a good match? You know? You do? Well, okay, perhaps I am not one who should question that idea, having leapt into too many things with the speed of a jaguar, and I mean the car.

I felt like taking her aside and telling her – you can do better. But the mother seemed satisfied. Perhaps it was a done deal from the beginning.

I cannot stand hearing the tail end of this. They are going to get up, shake hands and pick the date, the photographer and the menu for the reception dinner, I just know it. I don’t want to witness it. Mr. B, take me home.

reflections

Can you cut out early? So gorgeous outside.
Must work.

What if I loaded the truck with a couple of kayaks and bikes and we left the bikes down river, drove the kayaks up river, paddled down to the bikes, then biked back to the truck and retrieved the kayaks?
Must play.

Oh, how well I remember kayaks! Heavy tents, cooking gear, backpacks. Poland in the late sixties. Summers with friends, paddling down connected rivers and lakes. Camping by the river banks. Girlfriends washing each others’ hair in the cold water. Getting cheese from the farmer whose riverbank we’re borrowing for the night. Finding wood for the fire. On the lake, singing loudly with each push of the oar. Zjem na kolacje borowki, woda z potoku popije…

Are there hills? Mr. B is allergic to big hills.
You’ll be fine. Just don’t tip the kayak when you’re on the water.

I can swim!
Hypothermia. Within minutes you’ll be dead.

The Yahara River. We pick it up just south of McFarland. Crossing Lake Mud I start singing. No one can hear me. The wind is strong here.

I heard you singing back there.
Damn! I’ll be quiet. I was one with nature. It felt exhilarating. I do realize that I may have startled the ducks and geese…
You startled no one. But I heard you.













Reflections. 1969. My old Polish boyfriend is telling me I am dipping the oars too deeply. You’re not using your pushing arm!
You’re not using your kind tones! You are also correct, but I’ll never tell you. I am strong. I can paddle all day long.

Reflections. 2005. Water droplets, trees staring down into the water. If I get tired, I will never tell you.
But I don’t get tired. I can paddle all day long.



















Hey, Mr. B, I'm back! Wait 'til you hear how stunning it was!
Biking back past farms, tractors, pastures. The arms rest now. The trees are bare but strikingly beautiful in this afternoon light. I’m grazing on Wisconsin scenery. Yep, my home state. You heard it here. Again.

Quiet

This word is in the subject line of an email I receive today. Simply put: quiet.

In the morning, I go up to the faculty lounge to get my lecture tea. Yellow chamomile in a blue striped cup. Anyone who has ever listened to me lecture will know the motions. I enter the room, squeeze the last bit of liquid from the tea bag, place my copious notes on a podium (or table if it’s a seminar) and begin.

This morning I am running early. Yes, really! I encounter a senior faculty member in the lounge. He’s one of those that seemed to me senior-ish when I was a law student myself, now almost 25 years ago.
Tell me, how long have you lived in Madison?
Oh, maybe 55 years by now. Why?
I want to know: is this the most beautiful fall you have ever experienced here?
Yes, definitely. And the driest. But seasons have been less and less harsh here for me.

For him? For all? Because with time, maybe everything appears less harsh.

It is still early afternoon when I leave campus. Classes are finished. I am back at my downtown loft. I put on a CD from the summer and stretch out on the couch. I let myself resurrect the image of the house I was so happy to get rid of this summer, the one in the suburbs.

(Truthfully....) I have not returned to my old neighborhood. No, I’m lying. I did go back, exactly once, a week ago, to show off the block to a friend who had never seen it.

When I had handed the keys to the new family, I felt relieved. The place was sold. The new family seemed happy. They had small children, they would fit in. But now, driving by in the evening I felt like a bullet had gone through me.

The yard was butchered. No, really, stripped naked. Forget the perennial beds – those were wild, imitating a cottage garden. Not everyone likes that. But what hit me was the absence of trees. The huge birch, towering over half the house, providing the dappled light that only a birch tree could display – gone. The crab apple with a million blooms – gone. That goddamn lawn is going to take over again, isn’t it?

My friend let me sit in silence for a while. I had nothing to say. This was not the house where my family lived. This is not it anymore.

Walking home from campus this afternoon, I pick a route that is exceptionally sunny. Warm. Quiet. In repose. Even the bicycles are resting.




A friend from the old neighborhood drops in at the loft. She has not seen it before. She marvels, she says all the right things, I love her to death…





Oh, did you see what happened to your old house? The desecration? The elimination of trees?
Yes…

The night ends with my adorable Torts group. There is a gathering. I meet them at this first stage of their night out. We take pictures. We tease – me, about their issues, they about my tattoo.



(the Torts women, with the prof in their midst)


It is close to midnight. The Torts students head out toward State Street, I head home, in the quiet of West Washington. Home. Where I set my priorities for the next day and the days after.

Trust

I enter the apartment building and I fumble for my key to open the main inside door. A guy is standing there, probably waiting for someone. He has five piercings on his face alone. Plus, hanging from his belt loop, a chain of keys that look rusty and unused. And a bandana around his forehead. In fact, he very much looks like a pirate. Do I let him in?

If he had been dressed in JCrew pants and had hair that was casually long (as opposed to authentically long, greasy and held together in a spaghetti-like pony tail thing), if there were papers under his arm (as opposed to a pack of cigarettes in his fist), would have I hesitated?

No, but then neither did I hesitate with this Captain Kidd. I held the door for him. Only he was too busy rolling tobacco to notice.

Am I the only one who will go off with virtual strangers, let pirates in my building and ride on a motorcycle with someone who has spent exactly 2 seconds reassuring me that accidents don’t happen on dark roads in the middle of nowhere?

Maybe I have pirate leanings myself. Maybe. I do have a pirate name, if you can believe it. (You too can have a pirate name. Just go here. Whatever you think of Internet quizzes – this one gives the dopiest of dopy results, but it’s awfully fun to take, especially after you’ve had some of the strong stuff.)

On the other hand, I just explained to the author of this blog that really, my ancestors were not pirates but gypsies. Either way, risk-takers, adventure-seekers, and often, as the legends would have it, a tad crazed. What can I say…

why do I turn my back on my own people?

I was born in Poland. Who doesn’t know that already? Come on, read the heading of the blog: Ocean, Poland, Polish, Polish, of Poland from Poland, Poland Poland Poland.

But do I have any American-style Polish pride? I’m afraid not.

Oh, I understand Polishness with all my being. I have little droplets of Polish martyrdom and suffering pulsating through my veins. I walk the streets of Warsaw, badger the salespeople there and chat up the cabbies like the rest of my country men and women.

So why do I not seek out the Poles who have, like me, moved to the States?

In 1979, the year I came to Madison, the Polish Heritage Club of Wisconsin formed its Madison chapter. Me, I stayed out of it.

Today, I find myself walking along State Street, enjoying a long route home on this yet again gorgeous day and just off to the side, on Henry Street I see a large Polish flag. Huh? Off of State Street? In Madison? Please, not another (lackluster) Polish deli (because, you know, the others were so in demand)!

No. A Polish couple (first and n-th generation) have opened a gallery (only three years ago, not that I noticed) with principally Polish art and jewelry. Tons of amber stuff.

I go in and chat them up. Man, are they talkative. (It’s the genes, it’s the genes.)

They seem forward-looking, they seem modern. They seem religious (I try not to stare at the big amber cross hanging down from his neck). They seem friendly (ah, the kiss of the hand). They seem warm and eager to bring me into the fold of the Polish community here in town.

I promise to participate in a pierogi cook-off. I promise to come to some party or other. I promise to hereafter do all my amber shopping at their place (and really, the jewelry is gorgeous. Stunning. Nicer than much of what you see in the average store shelves in Warsaw or Krakow).

However, chances of me being involved in the Polish Heritage Club of Wisconsin – Madison chapter? Same as before: zero.

[Are you missing the reason? Let me just say that a Palm Sunday Spring Festival with a demonstration of egg-decorating and the sale of Easter items, workshops on embroidery, making Polish cutouts, putting together Christmas packages for Polish troops in Iraq, volunteering as a guest speaker for the Kiwanis and the Oregon Senior Center, and volunteering at the Boston Store Community Days – these all seem proper and decent activities, I’m sure. Yay Polish Heritage Club. And the day you find me at any of them will be the day I have turned completely senile and some well-meaning volunteer wheels me over, thinking (erroneously) that I might enjoy a slice of the old country on this side of the ocean.]

no, not insomnia. wrong door.

I could not sleep last night. I sat for a good part of the night looking out the loft window and watching the night fade away. The sky in the morning always appears to take on color and light quite suddenly. One minute there is only darkness, the next – pink clouds are everywhere.

This nocturnal sky-watching caused me to be slow at most everything today. My poor adorable Torts section had to listen to two personal stories before I could rev up the engine and get enthusiastic about the topic at hand. (They are sworn to secrecy on one of the stories. Don’t tell! Don’t tell!)

Luckily, someone brought chocolate cookies to class. (We have a blogger with a camera in her cell and she has been capturing our class food moments.) Honestly, have I commented before about the utter saintliness of this group?

I’m getting off topic. I wanted to simply post this one nagging thought that I had today: do we know of anyone who has ever resolved any complicated issue between the hours of 3 and 6 a.m.? Invented anything? Composed great music? Painted something credible? Written anything wise? Said something wonderful?

I was driving this afternoon along Regent Street. I needed to turn left onto Park Street. It was 3:30p.m. There is a sign there that says “no left turns between 3 and 6p.m.” Inevitably there will be a car waiting to turn during those hours anyway. As if they didn’t get it. No left turns, you jackass! There’s a reason for that sign! Move on, you fool!

I think there should be a sign in our brains that says “no great thoughts between 3 and 6a.m.” And, unlike the Regent Street sign, this one should not be ignored.

here today, gone tomorrow [or: a Sunday excursion to the Elvehjem, oops, Chazen Museum in Madison]

Story no. 1:

So you work hard your whole life (come on, stretch with me here). You succeed, you are a brilliant scientist (imagine that). Your spouse supports the arts.

Your community loves you. Buildings will be named after you. You die if not happy, then at least with the knowledge that you will be remembered.

Your spouse dies years later, if not happy, then at least with the vivid memory of you and your name, right there, on the museum she adored. Nice.

Years pass. Along comes a donor with deep pockets and fond memories of Madison school days. A mega pledge is made to the museum. And lo and behold, your name is off the white stone walls.

This is the story of UW’s art gallery -- once named after Conrad Elvehjem, now renamed (effective immediately, the press release screamed this year) the Chazen Museum, after Simona and Jerome Chazen – two people with twenty million to give. So much for local scientist makes good.

Thank you Simona and Jerome. I’m sorry Conrad and Constance.


Story no. 2:

You’re a kid. You discover your dad’s favorite toy (clean up your minds: it’s simply a camera). You shoot a picture of your family.

You get hooked. If blogs had been invented you’d probably set up your own flickr account. However, we are at the turn of the century and I mean the one that went from 1899 to 1900, so flickr was just in the gestational stages of existence. If that.

You take many pictures of family members and moving objects in your town. I mean, many many pictures.

Later in life you take on a real professional existence (can we call a painter a real professional? Sure we can. This is Ocean, we can do anything).

When you are old but not yet cranky, your childhood photos get discovered. You die. Some of your photos make it to MoMA in NY, and a whole bunch make it for a fleeting season to Madison.

Thank you, Jacques Henri Lartigue.

Question for reader: who fared better, Conrad/Constance, Simona/Jerome, or Jacques Henri?

Post Scriptum: If you are in Madison, check out the exquisite exhibit of Lartigue’s childhood photos (all from the Belle Epoque era) at the Elvehjem Chazen Museum. Lartigue calls himself a life-long amateur photographer. Amateur? Yeah, buddy, sure. Precocious brat!

deprived?

If you sat five random friends together and asked them to list five essentials of life, I am certain that the lists would not overlap. Except that I am also certain that all would include one thing: sleep.

Question: how do you know if you’re not getting enough sleep?

People have heard me say “sleep is overrated,” but I don’t mean it. And in the last 24 hours I have had the following signals that maybe I’m not getting enough of slow-wave and REM activity:

I had to take a break from participating in the Law School retreat today because in the middle of the morning session I started to think that words spoken by a colleague sitting across from me were sounding awfully much like a lullaby, so that I began to feel an overwhelming urge to snuggle into the shoulder of another colleague not far from me, just because, well, because his shoulder looked like it was in a perfect position for a head rest;

I subsequently went to the local café, ordered a double espresso and gulped it down with such speed that I surprised myself. Unfortunately, I then dozed off, right there, still clutching the empty cup, thereby missing the first part of an afternoon session of the retreat.

Oh, and yesterday, while hiking up and around Gibraltar Rock at dusk, I found myself seriously engaged in a discussion of what would be the consequences of taking a little repose right there on the forest floor*.

I worry that I will fall asleep while delivering a lecture, or while riding Mr. B. The motion is just right for it.

What remedy? Get more sleep you say. My answer: not so easy. I give up on the day late. Very late. Sounds wake me at night. And, inevitably, I look at the clock, see no digit larger than 4 and I get up, thinking: surely it’s time.

Time for what? For putting away dishes carelessly left out hours earlier on the coffee table?

I don’t really suffer from insomnia. I just don’t finish the night in the same way that others do. Or maybe I’m not the only one thinking in those dark wee hours that much needs to be done -- fields need to be plowed and machines need to be built before the sun crosses the horizon and a new day sets in. Maybe.


* Gibraltar Rock, near dusk, tempting:

A shameless plug for my home --that’s right, home-- state

I’ve been asked that over and over and over (etc) again: why do I continue to live in Wisconsin? As if I am the type that should be scheming and planning exit strategies to leave this state that has the climate of the tundra and requires two flights to get to any major non-Midwestern city.

I answer in terms of work. I answer in terms of friends. I even sometimes answer in terms of the Farmers Market. [Do I really stay here because of the Farmers Market? Of course not, but people nod their heads as if this makes perfect sense.]

What I don’t mention is the natural beauty of the place.

This omission has not gone by unnoticed. A friend, himself a transplant from New York, has taken it upon himself to shake me loose of my fixation with the big city. And I have had to admit with great shame and embarrassment that I really do not know Wisconsin, even in and around Dane County (of Madison), all that well. I have never climbed up Observatory Hill in Paoli, or Gibraltar Rock outside Lodi. And my ignorance extends over the Ice Age Trail – I’ve never walked it, and the Merrimac ferry – I’ve never used it to cross the Wisconsin River.

As of today, I’ve done all the above. Okay, people, let me tell you this: move to Wisconsin. It is one hell of a beautiful state.

It’s Fall. Of course I can’t get away from nature’s forceful use of bright, audacious color. But don’t assume that this Wisconsin flattery is merely one of those passing fancies: here on this perfect Autumn day, gone tomorrow.




Gibraltar Rock



Gibraltar Rock woods


Not far from this sandstone formation, we pick up the Ice Age trail. It doesn’t make much sense to me really. It’s not as if some types walked here during the Ice Age. Who even went for walks during the Ice Age? No matter: it is divine. And we struck it at sunset.







Within a spit’s throw (perhaps people don’t think well of Wisconsin because they think we use phrases such as “spit’s throw;” we don’t. really), there is the Merrimac Ferry. I asked my friend “where do we buy tickets??? The ferry is docking!!” He looked at me as if I were the Ninny-supreme, as opposed to the Ninny who got this unfortunate nickname in grad school 30 years back. “It’s free.” Of course. Because coming from a childhood in New York I would be entirely skeptical that any form of movement from point A to point Z could be free.



across the Wisconsin River


I was to be taken to the next round of scenic places but I am beginning to put my foot down to navigating country roads after dark. It’s pretty scary in these parts where there are no bright street lights and hot dog vendors at every intersection. It’s just you and nature out there. Though I happen to think that the natural world is much like me: interesting maybe, quirky at times and very likely to do things very imperfectly. Hey, take a look at the geese flying in this (imperfect) V formation.

Speed

Damn warm outside. And yet I’m wrapped in a scarf (I know, so French), with jacket buttoned high. I get cold not only in winter but in anticipation of winter.

Mr. B is frowning. He lets me know that I have neglected him. (C’mon, Mr. B, I just saw you yesterday!) I don’t think he is right. He is just jealous because lately, when there’s a crunch, instead of hopping on his little saddle, I gratefully accept another ride to campus – on a motorcycle. Mr. B thinks ill of motorcycles. I tell him: me too, me too, but this is a VINTAGE something or other. And, sorry, Mr. B.: it is faster and gets me places.

So why do I feel so cold? Maybe because, for the first time in some ten years I actually have a cold? Damn this outdoor stuff!

I get a call this afternoon. Someone has been reading my blog post. “It’s warmer today. Come see the sun set. Paoli is cool: you can see forever from the hills south of there.” Paoli is also far. Like a good half hour south from Madison. I have work to do. The sun sets at 4:46. Oh fine. Call me pushover Ninny. I’ll work at night while the world sleeps.

When you ride on a motorcycle at dusk, you notice the hills and valleys. It is horribly cold when you hit a valley. The wind whips your ankles and your wrists. Thank God your face is protected if you yourself are not the driver. Then comes a hill – a blast of warm air, but only for a while.

Do I have my camera? Indeed! Would you like to see a photo of the countryside south of Madison at dusk on a cold November day? Here, taken from a speeding motorcycle, trying to get to the top of a hill in time for the sunset [update: the setting sun was a failed attempt].





At the top of Observatory Hill in Paoli the air is absolutely still. Quiet. Warm. Sort of. Manure mixed with chimney smoke fill your nostrils down in the valleys, but here, the air smells of autumn woods and fields of dirt, maybe because we are surrounded by autumn woods and fields of dirt.




On the ride back I bury myself somewhere in the back seat of this vintage something or other. Photos not taken, roads not followed… what is pleasure if not accepting that which didn’t happen and relishing instead that, which replaces loss?

Bare trees

Late this afternoon, a couple of adorable Torts students sat in my office with me and we watched the leaves fall outside. I regard this as a pretty near ideal use of my office: for students to come late in the day and chew the fat – life, death, summer, winter – when else do you have a chance to pretend you have something wise to say about any of these?

It is of course entirely possible that they were humoring me. Still, it was a pleasant moment in a not unpleasant day.

But looking out my office window was also a slap of reality. Those falling leaves signal bare trees which in turn signal the imminent arrival of Wisconsin winter which in turn means cold winds leading to watery eyes that freeze over. And that’s not the only thing that freezes with winter. When we get to, well, right about now, I lose interest in doing anything outdoorsy, especially in the after-work hours.

Good-bye exploring the neighborhood. Good-bye exploring Paoli’s hill, the one with the view, at dusk, even if does offer photo-blogging opportunities (sorry!). Hello exploring the local video store. God, I sound boring.

Rynias, in the Polish Tatra Mountains, December 1971: I’m leaving Poland in a month. I don’t know yet that it is a forever thing. But this night I am with my friends, in a farmhouse, in the Alpine-like valley of Rynias. There’s no doubt about it, the room that we all share at pan Stas and pani Anna’s house is warm. So warm. Quilts pulled tight. Only the need to pee in the outhouse forces you to get out from under the quilts. Warm. Cuddling, snuggling, warm. I’m about to leave you guys, but for now, this winter has not a single icicle touching my spine. Mmmmm, so warm.

And so I head out today to take in my neighborhood’s unique charm. Is it the last time that I do this? The sun is fading, going down, going down. I give myself a five-block radius and I pace the blocks, peering, staring:




To the south, the lakes, the tracks. A solitary person, counting steps.

To the north, the commercial side. But of a type. My favorite in the world corner grocery store (the Co-op) which, in true to form Madison co-op style, has a large seasonal mural on the wall. Here’s a snippet of it:




And closer in, not five blocks but four, the Electric Earth café, open til midnight. What’s it like? Well, at the checkout counter, you can help yourself to one of these:




My blocks. A circle of warmth. Today there are still leaves on the trees and pumpkins on doorsteps. Not for long. This is Wisconsin. Bare trees, cold winds. Just around the bend.

night fever

Cos we're living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
when they all should let us be.

I sit down at the keyboard. Click, Welcome Nina. Click again, click, click again, I am there. Only you wouldn’t recognize me. I am wearing different clothes now. Nothing that constrains, nothing that binds. I need to be able to move, to glide and maneuver.

You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour
My savior when I fall

I’m hanging out with a small handful of bloggers. Out there in cyberspace. The regulars are all there. And we play. First, I catch up. Because they have been at it for a while. I’m usually late.

I'm in. I'm throwing around words and phrases that are very un-Ocean-like. We dance. We show off. We do verbal somersaults.

Comments fly with the speed of the Net. Exposed, raw, sometimes brilliant, sometimes completely lacking in wit.

I really meant to learn
Cos we're living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
when they all should let us be.

I am fearless. I listen, I pick up the rhythm. I am engaged.

And then I am spent.

I return here to my familiar neighborhood, to my friends in the sidebar.

You know the door to my very soul
And you may not think I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do

I snuggle in their safe, familiar territory. Teddy bears, all of them. I know them inside out: their way of writing, their strengths, their frailties.

Ocean is calm, Ocean waits, without judgment, without scorn. I’m ready to pick up where I left off here in its murky waters.

And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms again.

I'm back.

Halloween revisited, one last time (one hopes)

I had a few extra class minutes yesterday and so I asked my adorable Torts class for personal advice. I know, I know, it is supposed to work the other way: they should be consulting with me about their important decisions. But I respect their opinion and wisdom and so I found myself turning to them with the following query:

If there are some forty apartments in my building and only one has children and these children live there for only half the week, what is the likelihood that I will need candy for Halloween and if I do need it, what kind should I get (notable fact to remember: any leftovers will come with me to class the next day)?

The students were more than happy to help. I heard Snickers. I heard Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I heard Skittles. I noted to myself that a trip to Walgreen’s was in order.

But then I read Oscar’s post on Halloween candy and pangs of guilt and remorse swept over me. I was feeding America with mass-produced poisonous chemical-filled trash, to be purchased at a chain that did not need my business. And suddenly I remembered that a kind friend gave me the gift of a membership to Mifflin Street Co-op this week-end.

Obviously I could not, COULD NOT buy poisonous chemical-filled trash for my beloved adorable Torts students (to say nothing of the kids in the apartment building).

I’m breaking it to you gently, guys: forget gooey chewy candy bars and colorful nuggets of sugar bliss. We’re going with fair trade. We’re going with what is right. We’re going with… oh, let me keep the hope alive. …I'll tell you after the noon hour (the time of the class).

Staid Street Halloween update: Ocean author gains fame and notoriety for her comment on horse poop

I do appreciate references to my coverage of the Saturday Halloween bash on the Daily Page.

And I fully support the high praise and deferential treatment of the Althouse blog in general. After all, she writes about Very Important Topics, whereas I find myself commenting on such things as bed mites and fried bananas. So that words (found in said article from the Daily Page) such as "high profile blogger Ann Althouse" no longer faze me.

However, I must admit it's a punch in the gut to have a reporter pick out this comment from Ocean's Staid Street post:

UW law prof Nina Camic also noted the revelry, posting several photos from State Street. She wrote:
Most certainly, it was a crazy night. Leaving before 1 allowed us to escape the slight altercation between several hundred and the mounted police. I had to feel sorry for the mounted police. Everyone kept cozying up to their horses then cursing them as they dropped manure and people stepped in it.

Fine, so I noted the horse manure. It stood out for me, that's all. I remember the evening as a blur of costumes, bare flesh, mounted police and the steam rising from the pavement where warm horse droppings let their presence be felt. Or smelled. Or something.

Sigh... At least I can take comfort in the fact that my students are too busy with their work to be doing something as frivolous as reading prof blogs, or at least this prof's blog.