I have been re-reading the Harry Potter books for a paper that I am writing. I am eagerly awaiting the publishing of the 7th book in about a month so that I can see whether or not my ideas about how Rowling may finish the 7-book series are correct.
While the scholar side of me has one set of ideas, the fairy-tale lover in me has a very different set. I've read the 6th book 4 times, and I've cried through the final chapter every time. Isn't that ridiculous? Dumbledore and Snape are characters, not real people, yet I miss Dumbledore and hate Snape. Like millions (billions?) of other readers, I don't want Hogwarts to close or the series to end. I want a happy ending where Harry is successful at defeating Voldemort (I really hope that somehow Voldemort's own evil eliminates himself), marries Jenny in a double wedding with Ron and Hermione, after, of course, Hogwarts reopens and they finish their NEWTS. I keep hoping Rowling will decide to write prequels and sequels.
It's not the magic tricks that attract people to these books. It's the real magic of invention that delights us. Rowling has created this delightful world, full of clever places and events. Her forte, however, is in the creation of characters, much in the same vein as Charles Dickens, who had a similar breadth of imagination and had a similar gift for inventing memorable, lovable characters. One more book just doesn't seem enough.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Bad Seed or Bad Environment?
Almost a hundred years ago a man was born who later became a drunk, a wife-beater, and raper of little girls. Obviously, Clive didn't start out in life as evil incarnate, but he certainly became evil by his own choices. I know nothing of his childhood homelife, so I have no clue as to what made him become the man he was.
When Clive was a relatively young man, he seduced Ella, the daughter of one of the few financially well-off men in town. She was only 16 and Daddy's girl. Daddy didn't approve of her boyfriend, so she eloped with him. At the time, I'm sure she thought he was wonderful, sophisticated, and handsome. The fact that he came from the "wrong side of the tracks" only made him more mysterious. She was at that age when parents seem narrow-minded and out to steal the joy from their children's lives. She had heavy responsibilities at home. Her mother had essentially abdicated her household responsibilities and placed them on Ella, who cooked, cleaned and cared for the younger children in the home. Compared to the life she was living, Clive's offer looked good, so she took it. She was to regret her choice.
Clive, too, had his regrets. He discovered that being married made it hard to live the kind of free, independent life he wanted. I'm not sure how soon the beatings with the rubber hose began, but it probably wasn't long. Clive liked his whiskey. He liked it much more than Ella thought. When he worked, he liked to spend his money the way he wanted to, and not necessarily the way it needed to be spent, like for food and rent. Within a year a baby girl, Melly, was born, and her needs were not significant to him. She was just another responsibility keeping him from feeling free.
In another two years a boy, Bill, was born and three years after that, little Vicki. With each birth I imagine Clive felt more trapped than before. The bars still beckoned. He still loved his whiskey, and if Ella complained, he just drew out his weapon of choice, the rubber hose. Ella learned not to complain, but it didn't make much difference when he was drinking. She tried to get odd jobs, even picking fruit, to get enough money to feed her children. Somehow they survived. But Clive had begun to use the hose on the children, and she was worried.
When Melly was about 10, Ella had something else to worry about. Melly was tall for a ten-year-old and looked a bit older than she was. One night in his drunken perversity, Clive visited the bedroom of his oldest daughter and robbed her of what could not be replaced, her innocence. How many times he repeated the offense, I don't know, but such an injury, repeated or not, leaves life-long scars.
Not long afterward, however, a miracle happened. Clive was killed in an automobile accident. He could no longer drink up funds, beat his wife and children, and rape his daughter.
Ella, still a young woman, found another man (Jim) who wanted to marry her, even with three children at her heals. He was a difficult man, hard on the children, strict in discipline, and not terribly loving to these young ones. But he was a hard worker; he didn't drink up what he made at work, and he helped this small family survive and eventually prosper. The children all managed to graduate from high school, marry, and go on to lead financially successful lives.
But Clive had left his mark on each of them. Bill and Vicki both became alcoholics. Melly, however, hated alcohol and wanted nothing to do with it or anyone who indulged in it. Their lives would bear out the influence of this bad seed.
Vicki married an alcoholic. Alcohol eventually destroyed their marriage, but not until after two children were born. Those two children were hurt by the constant fighting and the contaminated atmosphere of fear and distrust. After the divorce, these two struggled with their own demons, both choosing never to marry and have children of their own.
Bill bought two liquor stores and decided to make his living by selling a legal, addictive drug in bottles. His wife, also an alcoholic, gave him two children, Bill Jr. and Joan. These two innocents were raised in a home where their father was raging angry most of the time, no doubt a product of the home example he had. He intimidated them and drank before them. Their mother doted on the son but neglected the daughter who so desparately needed genuine affection. They hardly ever saw her without a drink in her hand, even in the early morning. One day, Bill Jr. found his mother lying dead on the couch, half of her body purple from the explosion of her liver, pickled with years of alcohol abuse. Less than five years later, Bill had to clean up his father's remains after they were blasted all over the floor of the liquor store he owned. Two robbers decided that the $40.00 in the register was not enough payback for them.
Bill Jr. struggles today with the same demon as his father and grandfather: alcohol. He doesn't beat his wife, but Clive's influence still reaches out to yet another generation: Billy and his finance, too, are trapped in its grip, a stranglehhold that seems relentless.
Joan created a fantasy life for herself. She couldn't face the demons that her parents actually were, so she created a fantasy memory of love and sainthood to replace the real but tragic memories. Her delusion became psychosis, to the point of disability from her job. In the mean time, she decided that what she needed was a child, but she didn't want to marry. So she checked out the male population and picked one that she thought would make a good contribution to the gene pool. Nine months later Missy was born.
Joan raised Missy in the pattern she saw at home--physical and verbal abuse abounded. There were others to influence that young life, and for a while, she did ok. When she hit her teen years, however, rebellion became too mild a word for her attitude and behavior. All the vices that Joan had hoped to prevent by her control over Missy's life reared their ugly heads--drinking, sex, and drugs. Missy married, but that didn't turn out too well. And one late night, at 23 Missy wrapped her car around a tree and left this earth forever.
And what about Melly, the daughter Clive raped at 10? She married a good man who didn't drink. She bore him three children. But the central influence on her life was not her biological father, but her Heavenly Father. When they were married only a few years, Melly and her husband met Jesus Christ. He transformed their lives and replaced the years of spiritual famine with years of plenty. The path has been filled with fallen branches, weeds, and rough brush, but the seed of faith planted in those hearts also bears fruit today in the lives of their children and grandchildren.
When Clive was a relatively young man, he seduced Ella, the daughter of one of the few financially well-off men in town. She was only 16 and Daddy's girl. Daddy didn't approve of her boyfriend, so she eloped with him. At the time, I'm sure she thought he was wonderful, sophisticated, and handsome. The fact that he came from the "wrong side of the tracks" only made him more mysterious. She was at that age when parents seem narrow-minded and out to steal the joy from their children's lives. She had heavy responsibilities at home. Her mother had essentially abdicated her household responsibilities and placed them on Ella, who cooked, cleaned and cared for the younger children in the home. Compared to the life she was living, Clive's offer looked good, so she took it. She was to regret her choice.
Clive, too, had his regrets. He discovered that being married made it hard to live the kind of free, independent life he wanted. I'm not sure how soon the beatings with the rubber hose began, but it probably wasn't long. Clive liked his whiskey. He liked it much more than Ella thought. When he worked, he liked to spend his money the way he wanted to, and not necessarily the way it needed to be spent, like for food and rent. Within a year a baby girl, Melly, was born, and her needs were not significant to him. She was just another responsibility keeping him from feeling free.
In another two years a boy, Bill, was born and three years after that, little Vicki. With each birth I imagine Clive felt more trapped than before. The bars still beckoned. He still loved his whiskey, and if Ella complained, he just drew out his weapon of choice, the rubber hose. Ella learned not to complain, but it didn't make much difference when he was drinking. She tried to get odd jobs, even picking fruit, to get enough money to feed her children. Somehow they survived. But Clive had begun to use the hose on the children, and she was worried.
When Melly was about 10, Ella had something else to worry about. Melly was tall for a ten-year-old and looked a bit older than she was. One night in his drunken perversity, Clive visited the bedroom of his oldest daughter and robbed her of what could not be replaced, her innocence. How many times he repeated the offense, I don't know, but such an injury, repeated or not, leaves life-long scars.
Not long afterward, however, a miracle happened. Clive was killed in an automobile accident. He could no longer drink up funds, beat his wife and children, and rape his daughter.
Ella, still a young woman, found another man (Jim) who wanted to marry her, even with three children at her heals. He was a difficult man, hard on the children, strict in discipline, and not terribly loving to these young ones. But he was a hard worker; he didn't drink up what he made at work, and he helped this small family survive and eventually prosper. The children all managed to graduate from high school, marry, and go on to lead financially successful lives.
But Clive had left his mark on each of them. Bill and Vicki both became alcoholics. Melly, however, hated alcohol and wanted nothing to do with it or anyone who indulged in it. Their lives would bear out the influence of this bad seed.
Vicki married an alcoholic. Alcohol eventually destroyed their marriage, but not until after two children were born. Those two children were hurt by the constant fighting and the contaminated atmosphere of fear and distrust. After the divorce, these two struggled with their own demons, both choosing never to marry and have children of their own.
Bill bought two liquor stores and decided to make his living by selling a legal, addictive drug in bottles. His wife, also an alcoholic, gave him two children, Bill Jr. and Joan. These two innocents were raised in a home where their father was raging angry most of the time, no doubt a product of the home example he had. He intimidated them and drank before them. Their mother doted on the son but neglected the daughter who so desparately needed genuine affection. They hardly ever saw her without a drink in her hand, even in the early morning. One day, Bill Jr. found his mother lying dead on the couch, half of her body purple from the explosion of her liver, pickled with years of alcohol abuse. Less than five years later, Bill had to clean up his father's remains after they were blasted all over the floor of the liquor store he owned. Two robbers decided that the $40.00 in the register was not enough payback for them.
Bill Jr. struggles today with the same demon as his father and grandfather: alcohol. He doesn't beat his wife, but Clive's influence still reaches out to yet another generation: Billy and his finance, too, are trapped in its grip, a stranglehhold that seems relentless.
Joan created a fantasy life for herself. She couldn't face the demons that her parents actually were, so she created a fantasy memory of love and sainthood to replace the real but tragic memories. Her delusion became psychosis, to the point of disability from her job. In the mean time, she decided that what she needed was a child, but she didn't want to marry. So she checked out the male population and picked one that she thought would make a good contribution to the gene pool. Nine months later Missy was born.
Joan raised Missy in the pattern she saw at home--physical and verbal abuse abounded. There were others to influence that young life, and for a while, she did ok. When she hit her teen years, however, rebellion became too mild a word for her attitude and behavior. All the vices that Joan had hoped to prevent by her control over Missy's life reared their ugly heads--drinking, sex, and drugs. Missy married, but that didn't turn out too well. And one late night, at 23 Missy wrapped her car around a tree and left this earth forever.
And what about Melly, the daughter Clive raped at 10? She married a good man who didn't drink. She bore him three children. But the central influence on her life was not her biological father, but her Heavenly Father. When they were married only a few years, Melly and her husband met Jesus Christ. He transformed their lives and replaced the years of spiritual famine with years of plenty. The path has been filled with fallen branches, weeds, and rough brush, but the seed of faith planted in those hearts also bears fruit today in the lives of their children and grandchildren.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Public Transportation.
Although I've lived in big cities, I am for the first time using public transportation to finish the commute to my job. The first few days were no problem; I was one of only a handful of people riding. This week, however, the "traffic" has picked up, and I have found my self face to face (or eyeball to armpit) with many more members of the public.
The guy sitting next to me yesterday looked clean when he got on the bus. But as he chose the seat next to and slightly above my seat, I quickly discovered that he did not smell clean. I had to turn my head away from him to keep from losing my breakfast. Odors, however, are not the only unpleasantness about public transportation. Space is also a problem. I like my personal space and try to respect the space of others. Yet the morning bus ride seems to be more crowded every day. One day last week, all the seats were taken, and three people were standing, holding onto poles. And speaking of holding on, the bus driver on Wednesday seemed intent on driving us to our deaths--and in response we were holding on for dear life itself.
There are some positive elements to this new experience of riding the bus. I get to see some people regularly, and in polite, distant terms, I get to know these people. While I really don't know much about them, there is a comfort in seeing their familiar faces, reminding me that I am not really alone. I also get to see some of my students on this bus; our student/teacher relationship gets put aside on these trips; we enter into a kind of equality where we are just riders of the same bus.
We are all riders of a much larger bus--the earth--as it spins and traverses space in a way that does leave some of us holding on tight because it seems life will topple over any minute now. My survival doesn't depend, however, on how tightly I hold on because my safety is dependent on how tightly my Driver has hold on me. The Scriptures tell me that I am written on His hands and that underneath are Everlasting Arms. My head may spin as life's events occur, but He is never out of control, steering me to His appointed destination.
The guy sitting next to me yesterday looked clean when he got on the bus. But as he chose the seat next to and slightly above my seat, I quickly discovered that he did not smell clean. I had to turn my head away from him to keep from losing my breakfast. Odors, however, are not the only unpleasantness about public transportation. Space is also a problem. I like my personal space and try to respect the space of others. Yet the morning bus ride seems to be more crowded every day. One day last week, all the seats were taken, and three people were standing, holding onto poles. And speaking of holding on, the bus driver on Wednesday seemed intent on driving us to our deaths--and in response we were holding on for dear life itself.
There are some positive elements to this new experience of riding the bus. I get to see some people regularly, and in polite, distant terms, I get to know these people. While I really don't know much about them, there is a comfort in seeing their familiar faces, reminding me that I am not really alone. I also get to see some of my students on this bus; our student/teacher relationship gets put aside on these trips; we enter into a kind of equality where we are just riders of the same bus.
We are all riders of a much larger bus--the earth--as it spins and traverses space in a way that does leave some of us holding on tight because it seems life will topple over any minute now. My survival doesn't depend, however, on how tightly I hold on because my safety is dependent on how tightly my Driver has hold on me. The Scriptures tell me that I am written on His hands and that underneath are Everlasting Arms. My head may spin as life's events occur, but He is never out of control, steering me to His appointed destination.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
First Days Perspective
I was meditating today about the stress that occurs at the beginning of a school term. When I was a student, the first day of class was often stressful: I would wonder things like, "Will I like this teacher? Will the teacher like me? Will the class be fun and interesting? Will the teacher be fair? Will I learn something or will I be bored?" Now as a teacher, I know that many of my students have these same unspoken questions on their first day in my class. I try to answer these questions by my manner, my attitude, and through my policies.
But today I was thinking about my own unspoken questions as a teacher: "Will my students like me? Will they listen to what I have to share with them? Will they judge me by my appearance or by my age? Will I be able to motivate them to do their best work? Will they learn something?" I doubt that my students realize that I have these questions. But I do.
Teaching really depends on the relationship I create with my students. I have already determined to love them, no matter what they look like or in what ways they may differ from me. I cannot teach them until I do love them, and love is an act of the will. It is a choice I make every time I agree to teach a class.
But today I was thinking about my own unspoken questions as a teacher: "Will my students like me? Will they listen to what I have to share with them? Will they judge me by my appearance or by my age? Will I be able to motivate them to do their best work? Will they learn something?" I doubt that my students realize that I have these questions. But I do.
Teaching really depends on the relationship I create with my students. I have already determined to love them, no matter what they look like or in what ways they may differ from me. I cannot teach them until I do love them, and love is an act of the will. It is a choice I make every time I agree to teach a class.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sold
Today I signed away our property to some people I don't know for less money than I thought it was worth through an agent who apparently felt more loyalty to them than to us, making more on the deal than we did. In fact, we took a loss on this house to the tune of about 5,000. I hate that.
My advice to all you out there thinking about selling your home is not to sell it yourself. Rather, avoid going through the big name real estate agents and find a discount broker. I wish I had. The discount broker works for the seller. He/she gets a set fee no matter how much the house sells for, and that fee is usually substantially lower than the regular broker. For example, there is a discount broker in my town whose set fee is $2500; for comparison purposes, my agent made over $8,000 on this deal. That $5500 difference would have made up for the loss I took on the price, and I would have broken even.
Hindsight is always sharper than foresight. Sigh.
My advice to all you out there thinking about selling your home is not to sell it yourself. Rather, avoid going through the big name real estate agents and find a discount broker. I wish I had. The discount broker works for the seller. He/she gets a set fee no matter how much the house sells for, and that fee is usually substantially lower than the regular broker. For example, there is a discount broker in my town whose set fee is $2500; for comparison purposes, my agent made over $8,000 on this deal. That $5500 difference would have made up for the loss I took on the price, and I would have broken even.
Hindsight is always sharper than foresight. Sigh.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Getting Real
This past weekend, we signed a contract to sell our house. So the packing begins. I've been dreading this time in many ways--the house will look a wreck for the next several weeks, with boxes and stuff we're sorting through all over the place. I hate clutter.
Clutter, however, seems to accumulate in many parts of life--in our houses and in our heads. It's hard to separate what to keep and what to toss in the ideas of life. We come across ideas that we ponder for a time, but we forget about them when other interesting ideas come along; they take up space in our cranial reserves. At some point, we may stumble across that idea, and then we must re-evaluate. Does this idea really have merit? Do I believe in its validity? Why would I think it has validity? Where's the evidence? What does the counter-evidence say? If I think through this idea and come to some conclusion about it, for me its like folding clothes and putting them away--the idea has its place and sits there patiently for me to use it. If I don't resolve these questions, the idea may just get tucked away in my mind as unwanted clutter.
All sorts of things in our lives can create clutter. This picture of my son is a good example. Today I began working on packing away the junk on my desk. I've been going through diskettes, zip disks, and CDs to see what gets packed and what gets tossed. This picture was on a diskette. I don't know when Philip drew this self-portrait. I wonder what he was thinking when he did. Does he remember it? Does he want it? Even if he doesn't want it, I can't throw this one away--it would be like throwing part of him away, and I can't do that.
Some people are comfortable with clutter. I'm not. Clutter keeps us from seeing the significant, the real. Part of my mission in life is to clear cluttered ideas and cluttered things from my life. It's a part of my personality that fuels a great deal of what I do.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Poltergeist?
Tuesday morning about 4:30am, I got up to use the restroom, and I heard the water running downstairs. At first I thought Drew must be showering, but it is not like him to be up that early and showering. So I decided to go downstairs and check. Sure enough, the shower was going, but there was no one in it. Just the cold water was on, the soap was on the floor of the shower, and the rug was damp because the shower curtain was open. I was afraid that some water line had broken or something, but I just turned the handle, and it stopped immediately. Very strange.
In checking with Drew the next day, he did not take a shower that night, and since we did not have any guests, the incident is puzzling. Any thoughts out there?
In checking with Drew the next day, he did not take a shower that night, and since we did not have any guests, the incident is puzzling. Any thoughts out there?
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