You know, during the last two months I have been serving as a permanent substitute teacher in the Primary. I really enjoy it, but the funny thing about the calling is the perpetual need to be prepared to teach without actually being prepared to teach (Note: Yes, that's what we call a paradox).
For example, for my first Sunday of substituting in the Primary, I taught the 7-8 year olds. The next week, I was asked in advance to prepare a lesson for the 11-12 year olds, but I ended up teaching the Sunbeams (Note: There is not much difference between the two classes, only Sunbeams are easier to entertain; all they want is paper and crayons). Two weeks ago and today, I taught a lesson to the 11-12 year-old class. Rambunctious is a word I might use to describe the behavior of the little fellows in that class. There are also other less kind words I might use as well, only I do not wish to offend the readership by writing them here. I'll stick with rambunctious. Also, they have attention span issues, so keeping them on task is extremely difficult and tiresome. Today, they were especially and deliberately so.
I began by drawing the picture of Nebuchadnezzar's golden image, though with my obvious lack of artistic training, it looked something like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz without a hat and the pole up his back (either that, or a very large voodoo doll). I asked them what they knew about the story (they, of course, knew very little). I began talking to them about the king's decree and what the people were supposed to do when they heard the music play. At that point, one of them asked me why I had shaved my beard off. I explained (I will not do so here; it was not relevant then and it is not relevant now). I told them the dimensions of the statue (6 cubits in breadth and 60 cubits in heighth) and asked if they knew what a cubit was. One boy asked how tall I was. I said 4 cubits, at which point they all began to laugh, though I have no idea why. I then informed them that the statue was made completely of gold. Another boy quite demandingly said, "Give me that statue!" (He repeated the comment another six times in the next five minutes; I counted). Unfortunately, I had to inform him that I possessed no such statue and therefore he was out of luck (Not that I would have let him have the statue if I had it, but at least I did not look like a miser).
To sum up, the next forty minutes went something like this (In order to swiftly and efficiently demonstrate the measure of the attention span deficiencies and protect the identities of the not-so-innocent, I will refer to them as Boy 1, Boy 2, and Boy 3, in the order they were sitting from left to right).
Boy 3: I like the NBA. I like to read books about the NBA. Dwight Howard is the best. My favorites are Larry Bird and Michael Jordan.
Boy 2 (to me): Have you read Hunger Games?
Me: I have not, but I have read the story it is based on, The Lottery by Shirley Jackson.
Boy 1: What's that about? (It was at this point I switched gears; knowing that it would be practically impossible to teach them further about the Old Testament until I satisfied their curiosity, I gave them a lesson in canonical English literature)
Me: It's about a village of people who draw pieces of paper out of a box. The one who receives the paper with the spot on it enters another drawing with just his family. Whichever family member picks out the spot gets stoned by the village. Tessie Hutchinson is the one who gets it at the end.
Boy 3: Why they do that?
Me: Because...
Boy 3: Are you hungry?
Me: Yes, why?
Boy 1: Give me that statue!
Boy 3: I'm hungry. I want to go to Great Wall. Have you ever been to Great Wall?
Me: No, I don't think so...
Boy 3: I love Great Wall; it's got such a good buffet.
Me: My family used to go to Chuck-a-Rama. That was okay.
Boy 2: Have you been to Tocano's?
Me: No, I haven't.
Boy 2: It's really good, but it's expensive.
Boy 1: Yeah, but it's so good.
Boy 3: What about Buffalo Wild Wings? Have you been there? They've got such good hot wings.
Me: Nope, I have not. Anyway, so Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-nego get thrown into the fiery furnace...
Boy 3 (to Boy 1): Have you taken Hunter's Ed?
Boy 1: Not yet.
Boy 3: I have a test tomorrow. Who cares if someone shoots Chuck Bear's underwear...
Me: What are you even saying?
Boy 3: It's to help me remember things for the test.
Me: Oh, a mnemonic device, hm?
Boy 3: What's that?
Me: The thing you just said.
Boy 1: Do you know what an anagram is? (he demonstrates on the chalkboard with anagram and nagaram)
Me: Yes. Do you know what a palindrome is? (I demonstrate with racecar) It's the same no matter how you look at it.
Boy 2: But it isn't the same both ways. If you read it backwards, it should be rac ecar (he pronounced it racky-car).
Boy 3: If I can't be in the NBA, I want to be in the FBI...
Boy 1: Give me that statue! Have you ever eaten a chicken heart?
And on and on (though the conversation has since been muddled in my mind, that is the best approximation I can make of what was discussed in the class today). Eventually however, I did in fact complete what little of the lesson I hoped they would comprehend or appreciate and gave up. And that, my friends, is how you substitute teach a class of 11-12 year old boys. But in the words of Walt Whitman, "All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, / I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there" (see Song of Myself 33, lines 831-32).
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
For the Kiddos
Today, I thought it might be nice to have a little story for all the little kids who have wanted to read my blog but have not had the opportunity to do so because they are not old enough to read yet: "This one's for you, wherever you are" (thank you, Barry Manilow).
Outlaw Suzy
Suzy was a blonde, curly-haired five-year-old, independent woman and, boy, was she busy. She had about a dozen dollies, and she felt the need to spend time with each of them, doing the things they liked to do.
She dressed up her china doll for formal tea parties with the Queen of England, showing her how to properly drink tea and eat biscuits when royalty was in the room.
She taught three of her rag dolls how to dance a Viennese Waltz, a rhumba, and a foxtrot (she had tried to teach them how to disco but had accidentally ripped the arm off of one of them while doing so; consequently, she stuck to slower and safer modes of dancing after that).
She flew with her Amelia Earhart doll across every ocean in the world (she actually lost her on one of the missions, but her dolly finally came home safely).
She and her dolls had been on every single continent, climbed the five highest mountains in the world without oxygen tanks (that was no picnic), and went on three safaris in the Serengeti to hunt crocs and gnus (she never got one; she was too nice to actually use her gun).
All in all, Suzy loved to pretend.
Unfortunately, so did Matt.
Matt was Suzy's older brother, a freckle-faced, red-haired miscreant who always ended up in Suzy's adventures (whether she liked it or not) and found a way to ruin them for her.
Once, Suzy was sitting on the floor of her room, horseback riding with Calamity Jane. Matt burst into the room, acting like a fighter pilot.
"Vroom-vroom!" he shouted, holding his arms out like wings. "Target in sight. Drop bombs." He released two red water balloons, SPLASH! SPLASH!, right on poor Suzy's curly head. "Factory destroyed," he shouted gleefully. "Back to base." He flew out of the room, leaving Suzy and Calamity Jane soaking wet.
But that wasn't the worst of it. No, no, no. Even when she wasn't pretending, he would show up and spoiled her fun. On her birthday, he had pretended to be a fireman, and when she was about to blow out the candles on her double fudge chocolate cake (her favorite), he opened fire with a large water gun, spraying water, candles, and soggy frosting all over his sister. Mommy scolded him, but the party was already ruined.
But Suzy wouldn't cry about it. Of course not. She was five years old and an independent woman. She could take of herself. All she did was wait for an opportunity for revenge.
A few weeks later, her chance came. Matt had been playing with his trains and railroad tracks and had fallen asleep in his room. Sammy peeked in the room and, seeing her brother unconscious on the floor, realized this was her chance. She knew well enough that Matt, once he was asleep, would not wake for anything less than the sound of a cannon going off or a blaring foghorn.
She went to the garage and found a roll of strong packing tape in Daddy's toolbox and quickly went back to Matt's room, where she proceeded to wrap her brother up, like a spider about to have a snack. She started by taping him around his ankles, his knees, his hands, and his arms. Last of all, she put a good solid layer around his whole body. Matt would not be going anywhere when he woke up.
She pushed his body toward the train tracks and placed Matt's head over the tracks near the water tower. She made a good slope just before the train would reach Matt.
"Wake up, citizen Matt!" she yelled, shaking the boy. "Outlaw Suzy's gotcha all tied up." She giggled.
Matt woke up slowly. "Wha...what?" A little bit of drool had run down his cheek, and the carpet had left a mark on his forehead.
"I'm Outlaw Suzy, sonny boy, and I'm here to make sure you don't bother nobody ever again."
"Let me go!" he shouted. He tried to move, but it was impossible with all of that tape around his body. Outlaw Suzy had used the entire roll.
"Citizen Matt, I'm here to tell you that you cain't pick on my friend Suzy no more. If you do, well, I'm gonna have to git a little rough."
She grinned and turned on the train. "Now, promise to be nice, an' I'll stop the train 'fore it runs right over your head, amigo. If'n you don't, I 'spect it's gonna hurt real bad."
"Turn it off, Suzy!" Matt pleaded.
"What's that, hombre? I cain't hear ya over that train whistle."
"Turn it off, Suzy!" he said louder.
"You gotta 'pologize, sonny boy!"
"For what?"
"You ruined Suzy's birthday party, citizen Matt, an' now you're gonna git yours if'n you don't say you're sorry."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Then I 'spect we'll be calling you door-Matt instead of citizen Matt," she replied. "Now, say it! That train's almost up the slope."
"Fine, I'm sorry!" he shouted. "Now, turn it off!"
But it was too late. Outlaw Suzy couldn't stop the train in time, and it crashed into citizen Matt.
THONK!
"Ouch!" he yelled.
"Sorry 'bout that, pardner," said Outlaw Suzy. "You jist shoulda said it quicker."
Mommy's voice came up the stairs. "Matt! Suzy! Lunch time! Come and eat or go without!"
Suzy tried to take the tape off of her brother, but she had done the job too thoroughly. "Sorry, hombre. I guess I better go tell your ma you're all tied up."
From then on, whenever Suzy was on the Lewis and Clark expedition, did Matt come and drop atomic bombs on Sacagewea's head? Nope. He was the packhorse.
Whenever she had dance ball or dress party, did he ruin by shooting her with rubberbands? Nope. He served the punch.
Whenever she went on a safari or hunting expedition, did he attack her jeep with his tanks? Nope. He was the croc and generally he wound up as a purse (it was a lot easier to use her gun when her prey looked like her brother).
And whenever she had a tea party in her room, where do you suppose Matt was?
Locked out.
Who needs boys to have a good time? She was an independent woman.
The End
I really wish that I had illustrations to go with the story, but it'll have to do as it is. Enjoy.
Outlaw Suzy
Suzy was a blonde, curly-haired five-year-old, independent woman and, boy, was she busy. She had about a dozen dollies, and she felt the need to spend time with each of them, doing the things they liked to do.
She dressed up her china doll for formal tea parties with the Queen of England, showing her how to properly drink tea and eat biscuits when royalty was in the room.
She taught three of her rag dolls how to dance a Viennese Waltz, a rhumba, and a foxtrot (she had tried to teach them how to disco but had accidentally ripped the arm off of one of them while doing so; consequently, she stuck to slower and safer modes of dancing after that).
She flew with her Amelia Earhart doll across every ocean in the world (she actually lost her on one of the missions, but her dolly finally came home safely).
She and her dolls had been on every single continent, climbed the five highest mountains in the world without oxygen tanks (that was no picnic), and went on three safaris in the Serengeti to hunt crocs and gnus (she never got one; she was too nice to actually use her gun).
All in all, Suzy loved to pretend.
Unfortunately, so did Matt.
Matt was Suzy's older brother, a freckle-faced, red-haired miscreant who always ended up in Suzy's adventures (whether she liked it or not) and found a way to ruin them for her.
Once, Suzy was sitting on the floor of her room, horseback riding with Calamity Jane. Matt burst into the room, acting like a fighter pilot.
"Vroom-vroom!" he shouted, holding his arms out like wings. "Target in sight. Drop bombs." He released two red water balloons, SPLASH! SPLASH!, right on poor Suzy's curly head. "Factory destroyed," he shouted gleefully. "Back to base." He flew out of the room, leaving Suzy and Calamity Jane soaking wet.
But that wasn't the worst of it. No, no, no. Even when she wasn't pretending, he would show up and spoiled her fun. On her birthday, he had pretended to be a fireman, and when she was about to blow out the candles on her double fudge chocolate cake (her favorite), he opened fire with a large water gun, spraying water, candles, and soggy frosting all over his sister. Mommy scolded him, but the party was already ruined.
But Suzy wouldn't cry about it. Of course not. She was five years old and an independent woman. She could take of herself. All she did was wait for an opportunity for revenge.
A few weeks later, her chance came. Matt had been playing with his trains and railroad tracks and had fallen asleep in his room. Sammy peeked in the room and, seeing her brother unconscious on the floor, realized this was her chance. She knew well enough that Matt, once he was asleep, would not wake for anything less than the sound of a cannon going off or a blaring foghorn.
She went to the garage and found a roll of strong packing tape in Daddy's toolbox and quickly went back to Matt's room, where she proceeded to wrap her brother up, like a spider about to have a snack. She started by taping him around his ankles, his knees, his hands, and his arms. Last of all, she put a good solid layer around his whole body. Matt would not be going anywhere when he woke up.
She pushed his body toward the train tracks and placed Matt's head over the tracks near the water tower. She made a good slope just before the train would reach Matt.
"Wake up, citizen Matt!" she yelled, shaking the boy. "Outlaw Suzy's gotcha all tied up." She giggled.
Matt woke up slowly. "Wha...what?" A little bit of drool had run down his cheek, and the carpet had left a mark on his forehead.
"I'm Outlaw Suzy, sonny boy, and I'm here to make sure you don't bother nobody ever again."
"Let me go!" he shouted. He tried to move, but it was impossible with all of that tape around his body. Outlaw Suzy had used the entire roll.
"Citizen Matt, I'm here to tell you that you cain't pick on my friend Suzy no more. If you do, well, I'm gonna have to git a little rough."
She grinned and turned on the train. "Now, promise to be nice, an' I'll stop the train 'fore it runs right over your head, amigo. If'n you don't, I 'spect it's gonna hurt real bad."
"Turn it off, Suzy!" Matt pleaded.
"What's that, hombre? I cain't hear ya over that train whistle."
"Turn it off, Suzy!" he said louder.
"You gotta 'pologize, sonny boy!"
"For what?"
"You ruined Suzy's birthday party, citizen Matt, an' now you're gonna git yours if'n you don't say you're sorry."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Then I 'spect we'll be calling you door-Matt instead of citizen Matt," she replied. "Now, say it! That train's almost up the slope."
"Fine, I'm sorry!" he shouted. "Now, turn it off!"
But it was too late. Outlaw Suzy couldn't stop the train in time, and it crashed into citizen Matt.
THONK!
"Ouch!" he yelled.
"Sorry 'bout that, pardner," said Outlaw Suzy. "You jist shoulda said it quicker."
Mommy's voice came up the stairs. "Matt! Suzy! Lunch time! Come and eat or go without!"
Suzy tried to take the tape off of her brother, but she had done the job too thoroughly. "Sorry, hombre. I guess I better go tell your ma you're all tied up."
From then on, whenever Suzy was on the Lewis and Clark expedition, did Matt come and drop atomic bombs on Sacagewea's head? Nope. He was the packhorse.
Whenever she had dance ball or dress party, did he ruin by shooting her with rubberbands? Nope. He served the punch.
Whenever she went on a safari or hunting expedition, did he attack her jeep with his tanks? Nope. He was the croc and generally he wound up as a purse (it was a lot easier to use her gun when her prey looked like her brother).
And whenever she had a tea party in her room, where do you suppose Matt was?
Locked out.
Who needs boys to have a good time? She was an independent woman.
The End
I really wish that I had illustrations to go with the story, but it'll have to do as it is. Enjoy.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Call Me Mulligan
No, I'm not talking about golf today. And I'm not going to talk about stew. Not again. The memory is still to fresh in my mind. No, it actually has more to do with the fact that I put a whole bunch of different things into the same post that don't totally relate to one another, but I wanted to talk about them anyway.
Substitute Teaching
So, early this morning, I received a call to go substitute teach at the high school for one of the language arts teachers, my first opportunity to have my own class. Therefore, in order to arrive a full half hour before the first period was to begin, I shook off the residual slumber haranguing my body and left for the high school around 7:15 a.m. I reported in at the front office where I received a binder with my instructions, and a student was directed to show me which classroom would be mine.
After a good twenty minutes of scrounging for a lesson plan and attendance sheets in the desk whereat I had placed myself, I decided to find someone who could help. I ran into the teacher's aide, whom I had met before, and explained my dilemma. She directed me to the teacher through whose desk drawers I had searched for a lesson plan, who politely informed me that I had been given the wrong room. She soon took me to the right place, we sorted everything out. Despite the poor beginning, I do like teaching language arts.
Recipes
Mom insisted that I write out a couple of recipes on my blog this week for pan burritos and chicken pillows because she is incapable of working from a list of ingredients and needs precise measurements in order to make something. I don't work this way, but I decided to acquiesce regardless of my personal feelings.
Pan Burritos
Meat:
2 lbs. ground beef
1 medium-sized onion
Taco seasoning
Beans:
2 16 oz. cans of refried beans
8 oz. Velveeta
1 large dollop of sour cream
1/4 cup of ketchup
Taco seasoning
Enchilada sauce:
1 tsp. lime juice
1 10 3/4 oz. can of tomato soup
1 8 oz. can of tomato sauce
1/4 cup of sour cream
Taco seasoning
12 medium tortillas
8-10 oz. Kraft triple cheddar cheese
Olives (optional)
Brown the ground beef in medium saucepan on medium heat. Do not drain the grease. Add taco seasoning and taco seasoning. In another saucepan, warm the refried beans. When they are warm, add the Velveeta, taco seasoning, sour cream, and ketchup. Stir and allow the Velveeta to melt. In a separate bowl, mix the soup, tomato sauce, sour cream, lime juice, and taco seasoning.
When everything is ready, put the enchilada sauce in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan, just enough to cover the bottom. Put a layer of tortillas on and make sure every nook and cranny is covered with tortillas. Rip one in quarters to get the corners of the pan. Put another layer of sauce, then beans, meat, and cheese. Repeat the process until you run out of stuff to layer with or you run out of room in the pan. The top layer should just be tortillas, sauce, and more cheese. Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes.
Chicken Pillows
(I will not take credit for this recipe; everytime I have someone else's chicken pillows, they have been variations on a variation of theme. Consequently, this is my recipe, but not completely)
2 tubes of 6 Pillsbury big and flaky crescents
8-10 oz. of swiss cheese, grated
2 1/2 pkg. of cream cheese
2 large chicken breasts
1/2 lb. cooked bacon, crumbled
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. thyme
1/4 tsp. sage
Salt and pepper to taste
1 Tbsp. of olive oil
Sauce:
3 Tbsp. butter
1/8 cup of flour
1/4 cup of milk
1 can Swanson's chicken broth
1/3 cup of sour cream
Salt and pepper to taste
Put the olive oil in a saucepan on medium heat. Fry the chicken until mostly done. Add the celery and seasonings until completely done. Remove chicken and allow to rest for twenty minutes or more before dicing. Dice and put in a bowl with cream cheese, swiss cheese, cooked bacon, salt, and pepper. Allow to sit in the fridge and season. Later, stuff the crescent rolls with the mixture. Place on a baking sheet and bake at 375 degrees for 12-14 minutes.
In another saucepan, melt butter. Whisk in flour. Add milk and broth and sour cream. Stir and let thicken. Add salt and pepper. Pour over individual chicken pillows.
Teaser
I have recently finished my first revision of my second book. Just a little sneak peek: it's about a little boy named Abe who lives in Wisconsin back in the 1800s. He meets a girl named Sammy Eames, who tends to get his goat and best him at everything. They have adventures as Abe tries to figure out the complexities of Sammy's personality and overcome his personal animosity toward her. By the way, she's extremely funny.
I intend to let it sit for a little while before I attempt a third revision. After the third revision I will begin sending out e-mails to folks and see if they are in need of some reading material.
Writing
You know, I really enjoy writing. I was kind of sad to hear a bunch of the seniors I taught today complaining about writing. The best part of writing is watching the development of characters unfold during the process of literary creation. The more time you spend with them, the more you find out about them; further, they begin to help you become a better person and see parts of your psyche manifest themselves through characters, often surprising you with their idiosyncrasies. "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together" (from The Beatles "I Am the Walrus"). Writing is an experiment in self-exploration and introspection: as you write, so you think; as you think, so you are.
3:00 A.M. Inspiration
By the way, when do you do your best thinking? I think my best inspiration comes at 3:00 a.m. or thereabouts. Last night, I was brainstorming for a central point for my next project, which is a book of poetry. I think my brain just likes the isolation that comes when everyone else is in bed. No distractions. Nothing at all to disrupt the pure stream of consciouness flowing through the conduit in my mind. Personally, I think everyone should carry a notebook and figure out when their best thinking time is. It's unbelievable what kind of thoughts and inspiration you get sometimes when you're in a place and time to receive it.
Substitute Teaching
So, early this morning, I received a call to go substitute teach at the high school for one of the language arts teachers, my first opportunity to have my own class. Therefore, in order to arrive a full half hour before the first period was to begin, I shook off the residual slumber haranguing my body and left for the high school around 7:15 a.m. I reported in at the front office where I received a binder with my instructions, and a student was directed to show me which classroom would be mine.
After a good twenty minutes of scrounging for a lesson plan and attendance sheets in the desk whereat I had placed myself, I decided to find someone who could help. I ran into the teacher's aide, whom I had met before, and explained my dilemma. She directed me to the teacher through whose desk drawers I had searched for a lesson plan, who politely informed me that I had been given the wrong room. She soon took me to the right place, we sorted everything out. Despite the poor beginning, I do like teaching language arts.
Recipes
Mom insisted that I write out a couple of recipes on my blog this week for pan burritos and chicken pillows because she is incapable of working from a list of ingredients and needs precise measurements in order to make something. I don't work this way, but I decided to acquiesce regardless of my personal feelings.
Pan Burritos
Meat:
2 lbs. ground beef
1 medium-sized onion
Taco seasoning
Beans:
2 16 oz. cans of refried beans
8 oz. Velveeta
1 large dollop of sour cream
1/4 cup of ketchup
Taco seasoning
Enchilada sauce:
1 tsp. lime juice
1 10 3/4 oz. can of tomato soup
1 8 oz. can of tomato sauce
1/4 cup of sour cream
Taco seasoning
12 medium tortillas
8-10 oz. Kraft triple cheddar cheese
Olives (optional)
Brown the ground beef in medium saucepan on medium heat. Do not drain the grease. Add taco seasoning and taco seasoning. In another saucepan, warm the refried beans. When they are warm, add the Velveeta, taco seasoning, sour cream, and ketchup. Stir and allow the Velveeta to melt. In a separate bowl, mix the soup, tomato sauce, sour cream, lime juice, and taco seasoning.
When everything is ready, put the enchilada sauce in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan, just enough to cover the bottom. Put a layer of tortillas on and make sure every nook and cranny is covered with tortillas. Rip one in quarters to get the corners of the pan. Put another layer of sauce, then beans, meat, and cheese. Repeat the process until you run out of stuff to layer with or you run out of room in the pan. The top layer should just be tortillas, sauce, and more cheese. Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes.
Chicken Pillows
(I will not take credit for this recipe; everytime I have someone else's chicken pillows, they have been variations on a variation of theme. Consequently, this is my recipe, but not completely)
2 tubes of 6 Pillsbury big and flaky crescents
8-10 oz. of swiss cheese, grated
2 1/2 pkg. of cream cheese
2 large chicken breasts
1/2 lb. cooked bacon, crumbled
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. thyme
1/4 tsp. sage
Salt and pepper to taste
1 Tbsp. of olive oil
Sauce:
3 Tbsp. butter
1/8 cup of flour
1/4 cup of milk
1 can Swanson's chicken broth
1/3 cup of sour cream
Salt and pepper to taste
Put the olive oil in a saucepan on medium heat. Fry the chicken until mostly done. Add the celery and seasonings until completely done. Remove chicken and allow to rest for twenty minutes or more before dicing. Dice and put in a bowl with cream cheese, swiss cheese, cooked bacon, salt, and pepper. Allow to sit in the fridge and season. Later, stuff the crescent rolls with the mixture. Place on a baking sheet and bake at 375 degrees for 12-14 minutes.
In another saucepan, melt butter. Whisk in flour. Add milk and broth and sour cream. Stir and let thicken. Add salt and pepper. Pour over individual chicken pillows.
Teaser
I have recently finished my first revision of my second book. Just a little sneak peek: it's about a little boy named Abe who lives in Wisconsin back in the 1800s. He meets a girl named Sammy Eames, who tends to get his goat and best him at everything. They have adventures as Abe tries to figure out the complexities of Sammy's personality and overcome his personal animosity toward her. By the way, she's extremely funny.
I intend to let it sit for a little while before I attempt a third revision. After the third revision I will begin sending out e-mails to folks and see if they are in need of some reading material.
Writing
You know, I really enjoy writing. I was kind of sad to hear a bunch of the seniors I taught today complaining about writing. The best part of writing is watching the development of characters unfold during the process of literary creation. The more time you spend with them, the more you find out about them; further, they begin to help you become a better person and see parts of your psyche manifest themselves through characters, often surprising you with their idiosyncrasies. "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together" (from The Beatles "I Am the Walrus"). Writing is an experiment in self-exploration and introspection: as you write, so you think; as you think, so you are.
3:00 A.M. Inspiration
By the way, when do you do your best thinking? I think my best inspiration comes at 3:00 a.m. or thereabouts. Last night, I was brainstorming for a central point for my next project, which is a book of poetry. I think my brain just likes the isolation that comes when everyone else is in bed. No distractions. Nothing at all to disrupt the pure stream of consciouness flowing through the conduit in my mind. Personally, I think everyone should carry a notebook and figure out when their best thinking time is. It's unbelievable what kind of thoughts and inspiration you get sometimes when you're in a place and time to receive it.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
"Here He Is, the Leader of the Plaque!"
To those of you who have no idea where that quote comes from, the title of this blog may sound just a little corny. Of course, I know exactly where it comes from, and I still think it's corny. Regardless, I think Steve Martin's rendition of "The Dentist Song" (that's where I got it) in "Little Shop of Horrors" makes at least one part of that movie worth seeing many times over.
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head for days and days at a time, but you have no reason why? I have, except I knew exactly why I kept hearing Steve Martin sing about shooting puppies with a BB gun, poisoning guppies, and bashing the heads of cats in. It was all in anticipation of my dental appointment today, my first in about three years.
I don't know this for a fact, but I think a lot of dental hygenists are women. It seems to be one of those professions with two X chromosomes, so I naturally assumed that the person who would be cleaning my teeth today would be a woman; if I were lucky, she would be an attractive one. Consequently, today I dressed to impress. I wore clean jeans and a shirt. Also, in order to make up for several years of substandard dental care, I brushed my teeth vigorously, flossed between all of the teeth I could conveniently reach, and used minty-fresh mouthwash to kill at least 99.99% of the bacteria in my mouth. Rinse, repeat, etc. I didn't even eat anything this morning because, after all, how embarassing would it be to go to dental appointment, and while you're talking to a pretty girl, discover that you have stuff between your teeth? I wasn't about to let that happen. I even thought about pumping some iron and exercising a little before going; that way, I could draw her attention away from the grossness in my teeth (Unless you have cavities or root canals, you only have one opportunity to impress a dental hygenist, and I didn't want to mess this up by having her stare at my teeth).
Anyway, I went into the dental office and began filling out paperwork because it was my first trip to that particular orefice. I gave my information to the receptionist, and she told me to wait until someone could see me. After two minutes of sitting and wondering, the hygenist finally came out and said, "Jeffrey?"
She was...a dude.
He was not impressed. Neither was I.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Did that actually happen?
No, it didn't. It would have been funny, but no, it didn't. The only true part of that story is the fact that I went to the dentist, I didn't have any breakfast, and I wore clean jeans. I think.
Here's what really happened. I went to the dentist today. I had not been in a while, so I knew the cleaning woman would have a lot to do in there. Turns out I was right. Three years of tartar buildup is not fun to clean, and it's even less fun to have cleaned.
Of course, the girl was attractive; at least I think she was attractive. Between the mask and whatever she had over her head, all I could was her eyes. They were very nice eyes.
As she proceeded with dusting and polishing and vacuuming, she asked me questions about myself. I could tell she was digging me, so I surprised her and me by flirting rather aggressively. I said clever things like "ooh-ah-ah" and "ee-ee." I even went so far as to say, "Ah-ah-ooh-ooh," which she found so hysterical that she had to stop stabbing me in the gums with her ice pick. Of course, why wouldn't you laugh hysterically at a grown man with a mouthful of spit who sounds like a chimpanzee looking for love?
Well, that lasted about thirty minutes. That's when I found out that she was married, that I had been living a lie for the last half an hour, and the only thing she was digging at that moment was plaque and tartar buildup. I felt bad that I had been flirting with someone else's wife, but that's the hazard of the job for her, I guess. I would have kept my mouth shut from then on, but unfortunately she kept saying, "Open up."
When she was done, I politely said, "ay-ooh" and left to pay my bill, "destroyed but not defeated" (from Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea). After all, there's an ocean full of dental hygenists waiting for a shot at these beautiful teeth. Let me at 'em.
Now you're making stuff up again, aren't you? you ask. Of course, I am. But there's nothing fun, funny, or exciting about going to have your teeth cleaned. You want the truth, Truth Nazis? Here it is:
I went to the dentist today. The girl cleaned my teeth. I had no cavities. I paid them money for it, and I left. There you go. Happy? Laughing? Uh...no. Didn't think you would. Just remember: sometimes a little lie well-told is just much more enjoyable than a little truth that bores your eyes out of their sockets. And see here Emily Dickinson, I don't care what you say (see "Tell the Truth but Tell it Slant"); sometimes the truth is better when it's sideways or upside-down.
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head for days and days at a time, but you have no reason why? I have, except I knew exactly why I kept hearing Steve Martin sing about shooting puppies with a BB gun, poisoning guppies, and bashing the heads of cats in. It was all in anticipation of my dental appointment today, my first in about three years.
I don't know this for a fact, but I think a lot of dental hygenists are women. It seems to be one of those professions with two X chromosomes, so I naturally assumed that the person who would be cleaning my teeth today would be a woman; if I were lucky, she would be an attractive one. Consequently, today I dressed to impress. I wore clean jeans and a shirt. Also, in order to make up for several years of substandard dental care, I brushed my teeth vigorously, flossed between all of the teeth I could conveniently reach, and used minty-fresh mouthwash to kill at least 99.99% of the bacteria in my mouth. Rinse, repeat, etc. I didn't even eat anything this morning because, after all, how embarassing would it be to go to dental appointment, and while you're talking to a pretty girl, discover that you have stuff between your teeth? I wasn't about to let that happen. I even thought about pumping some iron and exercising a little before going; that way, I could draw her attention away from the grossness in my teeth (Unless you have cavities or root canals, you only have one opportunity to impress a dental hygenist, and I didn't want to mess this up by having her stare at my teeth).
Anyway, I went into the dental office and began filling out paperwork because it was my first trip to that particular orefice. I gave my information to the receptionist, and she told me to wait until someone could see me. After two minutes of sitting and wondering, the hygenist finally came out and said, "Jeffrey?"
She was...a dude.
He was not impressed. Neither was I.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Did that actually happen?
No, it didn't. It would have been funny, but no, it didn't. The only true part of that story is the fact that I went to the dentist, I didn't have any breakfast, and I wore clean jeans. I think.
Here's what really happened. I went to the dentist today. I had not been in a while, so I knew the cleaning woman would have a lot to do in there. Turns out I was right. Three years of tartar buildup is not fun to clean, and it's even less fun to have cleaned.
Of course, the girl was attractive; at least I think she was attractive. Between the mask and whatever she had over her head, all I could was her eyes. They were very nice eyes.
As she proceeded with dusting and polishing and vacuuming, she asked me questions about myself. I could tell she was digging me, so I surprised her and me by flirting rather aggressively. I said clever things like "ooh-ah-ah" and "ee-ee." I even went so far as to say, "Ah-ah-ooh-ooh," which she found so hysterical that she had to stop stabbing me in the gums with her ice pick. Of course, why wouldn't you laugh hysterically at a grown man with a mouthful of spit who sounds like a chimpanzee looking for love?
Well, that lasted about thirty minutes. That's when I found out that she was married, that I had been living a lie for the last half an hour, and the only thing she was digging at that moment was plaque and tartar buildup. I felt bad that I had been flirting with someone else's wife, but that's the hazard of the job for her, I guess. I would have kept my mouth shut from then on, but unfortunately she kept saying, "Open up."
When she was done, I politely said, "ay-ooh" and left to pay my bill, "destroyed but not defeated" (from Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea). After all, there's an ocean full of dental hygenists waiting for a shot at these beautiful teeth. Let me at 'em.
Now you're making stuff up again, aren't you? you ask. Of course, I am. But there's nothing fun, funny, or exciting about going to have your teeth cleaned. You want the truth, Truth Nazis? Here it is:
I went to the dentist today. The girl cleaned my teeth. I had no cavities. I paid them money for it, and I left. There you go. Happy? Laughing? Uh...no. Didn't think you would. Just remember: sometimes a little lie well-told is just much more enjoyable than a little truth that bores your eyes out of their sockets. And see here Emily Dickinson, I don't care what you say (see "Tell the Truth but Tell it Slant"); sometimes the truth is better when it's sideways or upside-down.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
"I'm not a smart man...but I know what love is"
Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth:
and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to
pronounce it right. (Judges 12:6)
What an odd way to begin a blog on love, you may think. Now, pay attention, you. When T.S. Eliot used epigraphs at the beginning of such great poetry as the "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", "The Portrait of a Lady", and "The Hollow Men", no one who understood the connection and the added dimensions provided by those excerpts complained. Neither should you.
I am aware that such a subject, on my part, is something of a departure from normality. (What am I saying? This is only my fourth entry on my blog; I haven't been doing this long enough to establish any sort of normality) However, I am, at this point, allowed to dabble in a metaphysical concept as broad as love. I know it is not even close to Valentine's Day, but since when should we wait until February to talk about the subject?
Now, I know that should there be made a piece of paper as long as the world, it would not be enough to contain all of the sonnets and essays ever written on the subject; however, I will try my hand at polishing a particular facet of the diamond called Love because, let's be realistic, who will ever be able to scratch its surface?
The subject, as I said before has been touched upon by many different people. However, some of them have had more substantial things to say about it than others. A couple of them include the theorists Martin Buber and Roland Barthes, who agree on the fact that the concept of love does not exist in a vacuum; it needs not only someone who loves but also someone to love (what do you know, Freddie Mercury knew it all along). To paraphrase Barthes, the infinitive form of the word "love" (i.e. "to love") makes absolutely no sense except as a lexical convenience (or "metalinguistic artifice" as Barthes calls it) because it has no subject ("I love you") and no object ("I love you") to give it meaning (see Roland Barthes A Lover's Discourse).
However, I am not content to stop there with the words "I love you." Words do not have innate meaning; that is they receive meaning as we give it to them, which meaning is derived not only from the particular words we choose to put together ("I+LOVE+YOU") but how we are able to express them. The men of Gilead slew 42,000 Ephraimites because they could not say the word Shibboleth in just the right way; by analogy, we might say that "I love you" is a multidimensional shibboleth which must said in exactly the right way. Shakespeare could write as many sonnets as he desired, but if the subject of his affection were Helen Keller, he would need to do better than shouting "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" ("Sonnet 18") from the neighboring rooftop if he wanted her to notice him, let alone reciprocate.
In Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac, we may find ourselves irritated with Roxanne who wished her lover Christian to "speak of love in [his] own words--Improvise! Rhapsodize! Be eloquent!" and treated him coldly when he was unable to do so. But perhaps we should not judge to harshly. Is it too much to ask that people push themselves in their attempts at loving, to go beyond the boundaries of "This is how I feel loved, so I will do this thing" to discover the essence of "this is how he or she feels loved, so I will do that thing"?
Love is a touch, a song, a compliment, an hour spent doing nothing together. We shall never understand it fully in all of its grandeur, its glory, its encompassing omnipotence, and we don't necessarily have to worry about that right now. But we do need to do figure out "what is love to me?" and "what is love to you?"
In conclusion though, I would like to share an excerpt from a letter from John Keats to his fiancee Fanny Brawne. I discovered this letter while preparing for an in-class presentation on John Keats my junior year in college. I found it to be one of the most genuine love letters I think I have ever read. It does not portray the agonies of love in quite the way that Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther does (thank goodness), but it does show a certain genuineness and sincerity as searches for a way to communicate to his love to Fanny.
"I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it -
I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that -
I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet." (13 October 1819 "Letter to Fanny Brawne")
(By the way, some of you may recognize the words "Love Is My Religion" from a Ziggy Marley song.)
The words "I love you", if we want them to have real meaning and significance in our lives, we must write them in something besides water or blowing sands. "I love you" is not a one-size-fits-all phrase. The medium for expressing love is often just as important as the thought itself, so make love understood and make it last.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Culinary Appreciation
Well, tonight I have a couple of recipes to share. Now, those who know me at all will also know that I never use recipes when I'm cooking. Because I now have this blog to keep up, for the benefit of anyone reading I will try harder to keep track of trivial things like measurements, etc., when I am in the kitchen. So here's what I made for dinner tonight:
Gnocchi and Creamy Spinach Sauce
3 Tbsp. butter
¼ cup flour
2 ¼ cups of room temperature milk
5 oz. frozen spinach, thawed and drained
4 oz. shredded parmesan
Spices to taste: salt, pepper, basil, thyme, garlic, nutmeg
1 lb. gnocchi (follow directions on box)
Melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and the milk. As it thickens, put in the spices, cheese, and spinach and simmer for a ½ an hour. When the gnocchi are done (i.e. when they come to the top of the boiling water), serve them directly to the plate and ladle the sauce over them. Serves 4.
Meatballs and Mini Shells
Meatballs:
2 lbs. ground beef
½ lb pork sausage
3 large handfuls of bread crumbs
1 egg
1 dash of balsamic vinegar
¼ cup of ketchup
2 garlic cloves, minced
5 baby carrots, minced
2 Tbsp. honey
5 baby carrots, minced
2 Tbsp. honey
Salt
Pepper
2 sprigs of fresh thyme
Fennel seeds
Fennel seeds
Red pepper flakes
Nutmeg
Onion powder
3/4 lb of mini shell pasta (follow directions on the box)
Combine all ingredients. Mix well with your hands. Bake in over for 12 minutes on 400 degrees. Place in the crock pot with one can of Hunt’s Spaghetti Sauce, either with mushrooms or the traditional kind, a can of diced tomatoes, and a liberal sprinkling of parmesan cheese. Leave for 4-5 hours (If you want to be adventurous, try provolone or fresh mozzarella). Serves 8-10.
There you go. Now, some of you might be asking yourselves, why does he want us to use our hands to mix the raw meat? Ugh! Now, now, simmer down. I know that some of you probably don't like the squishy texture of raw ground beef and sausage. Well, I guess you have two options then: 1) Use a spoon to mix the meat and keep depriving yourself of the joys included in what I believe to be an infantile regression to the good ol' days "when the world [was] mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful" (from E.E. Cummings "In just-Spring"); when you played in puddles formed by rain which had run into the ruts made by the passing wheels of automobiles, making such fine delicacies as mud cakes and pies with your brothers and sisters, who would "taste" them and compliment you highly on your culinary creations formed with clumps of clammy clay. Or 2) Do as I tell you and use your d--- fingers. I have never regretted doing it, and neither will you.
Now, why do you suppose I omit the measurements for spices? Excellent question (of course it is). The answer is beyond simple: I don't use measurements, and you shouldn't either. Everyone has different taste buds, some being more responsive to sour or bitter or sweet or salty or umami (I think I covered them all; score one for the Food Network junkie!). I am a firm believer that you can't trust a recipe to come out the way you like it. Live dangerously and control the amounts of seasonings in your food.
Finally, some people--including Alton Brown, the host of Good Eats and Iron Chef America--are turned off by the thought of meatballs swimming in gloppy red sauce. While I respect such opinions (after all, everyone is entitled to one), I think the way I have it set up in this recipe is a perfect method for counteracting such--dare I say it--elitist sentiment. More meatballs, less sauce. Further, the sauce, when left for an extended period of time, tends to reduce drastically, so the meat-to-gloppiness ratio will continue to decrease the longer it stays in the crock pot.
Just a thought, though. Don't you find that making food is a perfect outlet for your creative functions and energy? I do. I think that cooking is the perfect way to experience the joys of creation at a certain level. For example, I once made a lasagna for a family in our ward who had just had a baby. Taking that meal to them made me feel a little nervous, perhaps like a parent whose child has just entered a sporting event or a dance recital. I simply crossed your fingers and hope he or she does well, and you hope, with confidence, that you were able to do your part in preparing them for that moment. When the word came back that the lasagna was a success, particularly with the husband who doesn't normally like lasagna, I felt proud of myself; however, (and maybe this will sound silly) I was prouder of the thing I had made than I was of myself for making it (Of course, I also felt somewhat embarassed by my parents who were standing there bragging about the other things I make, but that's beside the point). Ultimately, cooking is a noble function, capable of enlightening the mind and soul, even as it fills a hungry tummy.
Monday, November 8, 2010
In a Stew
Mom opened a couple bottles of stew tonight for dinner. I don't know what it is, but the very idea of stew makes my skin crawl, much in the same way that casseroles do. Looking down at the the bowl filled with that brown semi-gelatinous concoction of things that might be better left separate, complete with carrots and potatoes, I began to think of the three witches in Macbeth and wonder if the bottling process for their potions resulted in a similar-looking product. Further enhancing such thoughts, the chopped potatoes in stew often resemble the eyes of a newt, which is disconcerting because, after all, who wants to feel like their dinner is watching them (if Mom had thought to add the tongue of a dog, it would be able to taste me as well). To combat my pre-conceived aversion (brought on by similar encounters with such dishes, as well as watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom), I kept telling myself, "the eyes are not here/ there are no eyes here" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"). However, it was the only thing for dinner, and as I was starving anyway (I'd been fasting), the only thing to do in the end was for me to ignore the stares and take a bite. It wasn't half bad.
I took Maren to her speech therapy session today. The whole escapade began fabulously when the administrative assistant at the middle school informed me that I was not on the list of people cleared to pick up my sister. I was half-tempted to tell them to keep her and walk out. However, I took the high road and stayed long enough to sort out that mess, after which Maren and I were soon on our way to Eagle for her appointment.
On the way, I told Maren that we would have some time in between speech therapy and cheerleading practice. She wanted to use the time to visit Deseret Industries and find as she termed it "a Princess Bride book." I informed the child that we might not be able to find said book at DI, but it would not hurt to look for it. She agreed with me (of course she did).
After dropping off an application for employment at Hobby Lobby on someone else's behalf, Maren and I proceeded to make our way to the thrift store area of Meridian wherein we would search for "a Princess Bride book." Go figure, what do you think I found on the first bookshelf I perused in DI?
Nothing interesting.
In fact, the next three shelves held more of the same sort of undesirable tripe, so I hopefully continued my search. Finally, after fifteen minutes of looking up and down, this way and that (looking at bookshelves can make you feel dizzy, sort of like doing the Hokey-Pokey), I found The Book.
No, not the Bible, although they did have those an' lots of 'em. Nope, there on the top right corner of the bookshelf closest to the door, with a red binding and an off-white cover, sat The Princess Bride by William Goldman. I showed it to Maren, and she was delighted (she sort of acted like she knew it would be there). I purchased it for $2.00, and it is now sitting on my bookshelf at home.
Now, you may ask, why isn't it on Maren's bookshelf? Good question.
No comment.
(Note: I intend to let her read the book whenever she wants to if she wants to, but I think she was expecting a book with pictures from the movie, and this one hasn't a single picture in the whole book, which consequently makes it rather boring for her)
Here's the list of everything else I bought:
The Story of the Irish Race by Seumas Macmanus (a rather intimidating, but surprisingly interesting, 600+ page book on the history and mythology of Ireland)
The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot: 1909-1950. This volume has everything a man could wish to read from T.S. Eliot, so everyone who has a copy of my book wish list, cross out anything by T.S. Eliot. It's been seen to already.
This Nation Shall Endure by Ezra Taft Benson
The Restoration of All Things by Joseph Fielding Smith
Every week I intend to make a book recommendation or two on my blog. Many people are so plagued by indecision, that is "halt[ed] between two opinions" regarding many things, not the least of which is choosing a good book to read. Most of the time, finding good books is accomplished via trial and error, so the reader is condemned to find out for him or herself whether the book is worth reading or not, and not until the book is partially or completely read. Sometimes, it is helpful to hear from someone else what they think about a certain book and its literary merit before making the plunge for oneself.
This week, I would like to recommend a young adult novel by Armstrong Sperry called Call It Courage. It is the story of a Polynesian boy who is afraid of the sea to the point that everyone makes fun of him for it. He goes on a canoe trip with his dog, Uri, in the middle of the night and ends up on a deserted island. He faces off with a shark, a wild pig, and a giant octopus as he journeys toward self-actualization and manhood.
One might ask, why would I recommend a young adult novel? Won't my blog be read by adults? Another good question (of course it is, I thought of it myself). I'll answer the second question first, and the first one second. I don't know who, if anyone, will be reading this blog. However, anything I can find in the way of strong and inspirational literature which may serve to encourage any individual of any age in his or her path to enlightenment will show up in my recommendations. I personally believe that any novel worth its literary salt can be read and appreciated by a host of different groups regardless of age, gender, denomination, and so forth. Therefore, I will recommend a young adult novel to adults because I think that some books intended for younger audiences retain a particle of naivete and innocence that many adults have lost somewhere along the way and ought to seek to regain. Now, I know that one of the main characteristics of young adult fiction includes the creation of happy endings for the characters involved, and for many adults such a conclusion may serve as a turn-off from such literature in favor of more, shall we say, realistic types of literary works. However, I think that readers who shun the innocent in favor of realism may be cheating themselves somewhat. In my opinion--and it is my opinion--it is ultimately better to strap the cynicism embodied in reality to your back and tattoo the hope provided by innocence to your chest, thus maintaining a constant contact with two very significant worlds of thought and, by extension, behavior.
I took Maren to her speech therapy session today. The whole escapade began fabulously when the administrative assistant at the middle school informed me that I was not on the list of people cleared to pick up my sister. I was half-tempted to tell them to keep her and walk out. However, I took the high road and stayed long enough to sort out that mess, after which Maren and I were soon on our way to Eagle for her appointment.
On the way, I told Maren that we would have some time in between speech therapy and cheerleading practice. She wanted to use the time to visit Deseret Industries and find as she termed it "a Princess Bride book." I informed the child that we might not be able to find said book at DI, but it would not hurt to look for it. She agreed with me (of course she did).
After dropping off an application for employment at Hobby Lobby on someone else's behalf, Maren and I proceeded to make our way to the thrift store area of Meridian wherein we would search for "a Princess Bride book." Go figure, what do you think I found on the first bookshelf I perused in DI?
Nothing interesting.
In fact, the next three shelves held more of the same sort of undesirable tripe, so I hopefully continued my search. Finally, after fifteen minutes of looking up and down, this way and that (looking at bookshelves can make you feel dizzy, sort of like doing the Hokey-Pokey), I found The Book.
No, not the Bible, although they did have those an' lots of 'em. Nope, there on the top right corner of the bookshelf closest to the door, with a red binding and an off-white cover, sat The Princess Bride by William Goldman. I showed it to Maren, and she was delighted (she sort of acted like she knew it would be there). I purchased it for $2.00, and it is now sitting on my bookshelf at home.
Now, you may ask, why isn't it on Maren's bookshelf? Good question.
No comment.
(Note: I intend to let her read the book whenever she wants to if she wants to, but I think she was expecting a book with pictures from the movie, and this one hasn't a single picture in the whole book, which consequently makes it rather boring for her)
Here's the list of everything else I bought:
The Story of the Irish Race by Seumas Macmanus (a rather intimidating, but surprisingly interesting, 600+ page book on the history and mythology of Ireland)
The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot: 1909-1950. This volume has everything a man could wish to read from T.S. Eliot, so everyone who has a copy of my book wish list, cross out anything by T.S. Eliot. It's been seen to already.
This Nation Shall Endure by Ezra Taft Benson
The Restoration of All Things by Joseph Fielding Smith
Every week I intend to make a book recommendation or two on my blog. Many people are so plagued by indecision, that is "halt[ed] between two opinions" regarding many things, not the least of which is choosing a good book to read. Most of the time, finding good books is accomplished via trial and error, so the reader is condemned to find out for him or herself whether the book is worth reading or not, and not until the book is partially or completely read. Sometimes, it is helpful to hear from someone else what they think about a certain book and its literary merit before making the plunge for oneself.
This week, I would like to recommend a young adult novel by Armstrong Sperry called Call It Courage. It is the story of a Polynesian boy who is afraid of the sea to the point that everyone makes fun of him for it. He goes on a canoe trip with his dog, Uri, in the middle of the night and ends up on a deserted island. He faces off with a shark, a wild pig, and a giant octopus as he journeys toward self-actualization and manhood.
One might ask, why would I recommend a young adult novel? Won't my blog be read by adults? Another good question (of course it is, I thought of it myself). I'll answer the second question first, and the first one second. I don't know who, if anyone, will be reading this blog. However, anything I can find in the way of strong and inspirational literature which may serve to encourage any individual of any age in his or her path to enlightenment will show up in my recommendations. I personally believe that any novel worth its literary salt can be read and appreciated by a host of different groups regardless of age, gender, denomination, and so forth. Therefore, I will recommend a young adult novel to adults because I think that some books intended for younger audiences retain a particle of naivete and innocence that many adults have lost somewhere along the way and ought to seek to regain. Now, I know that one of the main characteristics of young adult fiction includes the creation of happy endings for the characters involved, and for many adults such a conclusion may serve as a turn-off from such literature in favor of more, shall we say, realistic types of literary works. However, I think that readers who shun the innocent in favor of realism may be cheating themselves somewhat. In my opinion--and it is my opinion--it is ultimately better to strap the cynicism embodied in reality to your back and tattoo the hope provided by innocence to your chest, thus maintaining a constant contact with two very significant worlds of thought and, by extension, behavior.
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