A Place to Call Our Own

My wife Connie has been in Iowa City for the past four days, and together we have looked at houses for sale in the hope that we might find one that will serve as our new home. We’ve seen old houses, new houses, windows that face every direction, old neighborhoods and new. Connie is driving back to Ohio even as I type. Hi Honey! We’re about to find a new home!

What’s interesting about this process is that like so many other critical moments in life one is tempted to imagine that every detail, every thought is equal. In effect, one starts to believe that this business of buying a house is a completely defining moment. In turn, without fully realizing it, you begin to think that this house must be "everything"—as if a house was something more important than the people who will live within its four walls. We imagine ourselves as somehow having to live out the rest of our lives in these sample rooms that open before us. This strange "future superstition" is the same thing we do to ourselves when choosing a college, or a fork in the woods—even a career. We believe that these temporary gestures are everything. How does that begin and when? I can’t blame this on my elementary school teachers. I can’t blame this singular numbness on my college philosophy professor. In the end I’m forced to conclude that like so many other things this high minded seriousness derives just as Freud said all things derive—from our awareness of mortality.

When you leave home for the first time you think you might never make it back again. (This is in our collective unconscious or DNA, whatever you want to call it.) This is a good sensation to have because it can promote self awareness and due diligence. But just because something is useful that doesn’t make it true. We go to a college and it does or does not define our subsequent lives and careers. We take a job early and find ourselves in an entirely different occupation much later.

And now because we are in our middle age and we have seen some good friends pass away and we are "empty nesters", well, we’re tempted to imagine that this house is the last one, that these are the last rooms. We will have to pass through a profound stage of life in this room or this one. The subconscious you see is a terrible thing. It makes us all too serious.

I realized late this afternoon that this isn’t our "last" house. There is no such thing. A house just contains the loving-kindness of the people inside its walls. Love transcends décor or a neighborhood. Of course. How did I let the shape of a bathroom or a lighting fixture convince me that ordinary rooms matter overmuch.

Connie and I will find a good house and it won’t be our last and it won’t contain our love.

I know that if the dogs could type they would agree.

S.K.

Red Sox Nation

Last night I watched the Boston Red Sox win their second World Series in four years and I thought of my father, Allan Kuusisto, who loved the Sox and who never lived to see his team prevail. My eyes grew moist as the final out was made and the Boston catcher, Jason Varitek ran toward the pitcher’s mound to start the celebration. How my father loved the Red Sox and how he suffered through their multiple World Series defeats and late season collapses. A New York newspaper said today: "This is not your father’s Red Sox." I surely knew what they meant. My father’s teams never had the stamina and self-possession of the 21st century teams from Boston. These ballplayers from Fenway believe that they will win and they put the pressure on their opponents to prove them wrong. My dad’s Red Sox were always straining to win but they never had that intangible dynamic of belief. These Red Sox believe.

I have a friend who thinks that team sports are atavistic exercises in vanquishing others and that this kind of competition is a bad model for human cooperation. I don’t know if he’s right about that or not. It has always seemed to me that baseball is about physics–that, and the nearly impossible task of battling gravity and mass. Of course there’s athleticism and luck and team work and yes, the plan is to beat your opponent, but in the end, both teams have the same opponent and it isn’t the other guys, its space and time and mass.

In effect: baseball only appears to be a human competition. This is why so many artists and writers love the game. The game is always about something else. And if your team loses, I think its safe to say that they didn’t lose to the other guys, they lost to actuarial matters and the occult happenstance of solid bodies moving about in time and space.

You say, "Ah, he’s just spouting this claptrap because his team won." I think the Red Sox were lucky. At every turn things could have turned out differently. I think that the Red Sox might want to ponder their fortune with some humility. The only likeable winners are those who take stock of their luck.

I hope the Red Sox will be likeable as winners.

Hi Dad!

S.K.

Autumn Sounds

It is autumn and the trees are flaming red and gold. How do I know? Because people talk about it. They say words like "burnished" which they do not say ordinarily. No one announces in the kitchen: "That’s a burnished piece of French Toast." But the leaves are burnished gold. This is because Jack Frost sends out his minions by night, little copper smiths who buff every leaf. But don’t take my word for it. Listen to the neighbors. "Hey, Joey, did you see the miniscule copper smiths burnishing your ash tree last night? It was better than Monday Night Football, I’m tellin’ ya!"

It is a beautiful fall day in Iowa. The little copper smiths have been working all night.

Others also work by night. The pre-Halloween toilet paper nymphs have been at work, festooning the burnished trees with bathroom tissue. And since this is Iowa City, people from Namibia and the Czech Republic inquire earnestly as to why American teenagers festoon the trees and houses with toilet paper by night. "This is how we express our love," I tell them.

It is autumn in the Midwest.

I can hear the local high school’s marching band through the toilet papered trees.

I wonder, if they had had toilet paper in the 18th century, if early American teens would have done this? Can you picture Thomas Jefferson sneaking out to cover the trees of the Custiss family of Albemarle County with Charmin?

All I can say is thank God we’re still a silly nation.

When I was a teenager in Geneva, New York we used to put a brassiere on the Virgin Mary who sat resplendent above a fountain. This was a seasonal ritual.

We also used to make relatively innocent prank phone calls to a relatively nice man named Donald W. Duck. This was also a seasonal ritual.

We discovered Mr. Duck because his name was in the phone book. We actually used to read the phone book for fun in those days.

We were looking for people with names like "Outhouse" and "Shickelgruber"—names we were assured could be found in any fair sized town.

I never did find the Outhouse family, though once, on a plane flight to Finland I heard the flight attendant paging a "Mr. Magnus Crapper."

What the flight attendant actually said was: "Mr. Crapper. Mr. Magnus Crapper. Please ring your call button."

S.K.

To Autumn – Keats (1795-1821)

Highgate Cemetery, London

"Why are you taking us to the cemetery, Professor?"

I recalled D.H. Lawrence saying: "I like to try new things so I can reject them."

"So you can see how the Victorians pictured their place in history," I said.

Ravens were sitting atop Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s tomb.

"They buried him with a little bell, in case he should wake up and need rescuing," I said.

"Karl Marx didn’t get a little bell, and you’ll notice there are no birds on his tomb." I said.

"George Eliot doesn’t have any birds either, and look, her tomb is sinking. That’s because they buried her with all her books." I said.

"How do you know her tomb is sinking if you can’t see?" asks a girl.

"Because I read the books," I said.

You could hear a day laborer spading up wet earth beside a fallen stone.

S.K.

Lucky

We’re lucky to be living in Worthington, OH.  Or should I say, we’re lucky to be selling a house in Worthington, OH.  After one month on the market and believe it or not, two showings, we’re in contract.

Our realtor was very optimistic.  "Houses are still selling in Worthington" he said.  He was right.  We happen to be in the right place at the wrong time. 

My heart goes out to all those people who have their own plans stalled by a lousy real estate market.  Monica Moshenko, host of Disability News & Views Radio Show, and her son Alex are trying to sell their house in upstate New York.  They have ambitious travel plans to tour the US in an RV as they take "the pulse of America and the largest minority in America — people with disabilities."  They are ready to go but won’t until the house sells. 

Roadtourad_4

Monica, Alex: Steve and I hope things fall into place for you soon. 

And that goes for the rest of America on the move.  Or hoping to be soon…

As for me, it looks like I’m Iowa bound as of December 5th.  My husband is waiting patiently for me there.  Soon, honey, soon.

~ Connie

Flat World Blues

What if the world was flat? Forget Columbus for a minute. Certainly you should forget Magellan.

In the flat world gravity would have a different effect so the people and animals and "things" would also have to be two dimensional. In effect, everyone would be like an upright, walking stingray. Or one of those card board cut out Bill Clinton or George W. Bush figurines that the tourist photographers always seem to have in plentiful supply in Washington, DC.

The flat world would have lots of problems: there wouldn’t be any airplanes and people would have to get around on the backs of flat donkeys.

Of course everybody in the flat world would be nostalgic for the 3D earth except for American school children who wouldn’t be affected. The blackboard would be the same. The teachers would still be there.

Since flat people can only move sideways Congress wouldn’t be affected.

Wars would be much harder to fight. Soldiers would have to throw razor blade Frisbees like that guy in the old James Bond film. And of course because people could only move sideways, throwing the Frisbee would be a matter of "blind luck".

As a creative writing teacher I sometimes tell my students that too much imagination can hurt a human being. In general we tend to opine that there isn’t enough imagination in our world.

But human imagination is often perilous. There are lots of bad ideas in the imagination’s house of horrors including eugenics, slavery, child labor, and the assembly line.

I’m no socialist. Don’t take me the wrong way. A flat world would likely have its own social inequities. In a flat world the really thin people would be the most powerful ones because they could get around faster. And there would be no incentive to develop your soul. (The soul is round according to all the world’s religions.)

There wouldn’t be any music in a flat world. If you need proof, Joseph Stalin’s favorite record was a 78 rpm recording of wolves.

Now I need more "roundness". I need to put my hands on a sculpture by Brancusi. I need to clutch a chestnut in my hand.

Stay balanced, my friends, stay balanced.

(Balance, by the way, is a requirement in both the flat world and in the round one.)

S.K.

Disability Blog Carnival # 24 Marks 1st Anniversary!

Penny L. Richards started the Disability Blog Carnival one year ago and this month celebrates the occasion  at her place, Disability Studies, Temple U.  Congratulations_2

We would like to take this opportunity to congratulate her for all her continuing hard work and dedication to this "community" of bloggers.  Bravo, Penny.  Bravo!  We thank you for the memories!

And now, without further ado…Welcome to the first anniversary edition of the Disability Blog Carnival!

Cross-posted at [with]tv


Clipart above shows blue and yellow confetti across which is the word "Congratulations!" spelled out in red letters.

Grammar on White Cane Safety Day

Today is "White Cane Safety Day" and the President of the United States has issued the following proclamation.

We do want to take a moment to reflect on the extraordinary achievements of our nation’s blind citizens and to remind Washington that 17 years after the adoption of the Americans with Disabilities Act, it is estimated that 70 per cent of the blind remain unemployed in the United States. I applaud President Bush for his proclamation, though as an English professor I can’t resist pointing out that the opening sentence has a subject-predicate agreement problem.

 

S.K.

Today is White Cane Safety Day

White Cane Safety Day, 2007: Proclamation by the President of the United States

Our country upholds the value of every person, and all Americans deserve an opportunity to realize the American dream. Many citizens who are blind or visually impaired use white canes to achieve greater independence and increase mobility and productivity. On White Cane Safety Day, we celebrate the symbolism of the white cane, and we underscore our dedication to ensuring more individuals have the ability to lead active lives and achieve their personal and professional goals.

My Administration is committed to helping Americans with disabilities live and work with greater freedom. Through the New Freedom Initiative, we are building on the progress of the Americans with Disabilities Act and helping our citizens who are blind or visually impaired gain greater access to the workplace, school, and community life. By working to tear down barriers, we are creating a society where all people are encouraged to reach their full potential and where the promise of our great Nation is accessible for everyone.

The Congress, by joint resolution (Public Law 88-628) approved on October 6, 1964, as amended, has designated October 15 of each year as "White Cane Safety Day."

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, do hereby proclaim October 15, 2007, as White Cane Safety Day. I call upon public officials, business leaders, educators, and all the people of the United States to observe this day with appropriate ceremonies, activities, and programs.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this

twelfth day of October, in the year of our Lord two thousand seven, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-second.

GEORGE W. BUSH

Cross-posted on [with]tv

Thank you, Scott Lissner, ADA Coordinator, The Ohio State University for bringing this to our attention.