Trending: Women Riding to the Rescue

Trending:  Women Riding to the Rescue

By Meg Curtis

042112.  Within the past two weeks, two women have stepped into the American limelight, challenging the assumption that the rodeo stars men, and women wait quietly for trouble to begin.  In these misadventures, men have gotten themselves into trouble, it seems, and women had to step into the roles of the cavalry act.  Rodeos need the best Rough Riders they can get.      

First comes Special Prosecutor Angela Corey, appointed by Gov. Rick Scott to sort out conflicts in the Trayvon Martin case, and send it to a grand jury, or decide charges. 

Next comes Secret Service Special Agent in Charge Paula Reid, based in Miami, who yanked Secret Service agents out of Colombia, after a fight with a prostitute foolishly went street-side. 

Both women may remind readers of their famous forerunners, who pulled pans out of the fire when things got too hot for the men to handle previously. Then, too, the cowboys had to call upon the kitchen sex to rescue them.  These legendary females include Annie Oakley, that All American Girl, and Joan of Arc.  Sometimes male historians have called the latter “crazy,”  but not when they needed her unique brand of leadership skills.    

The back-story of the Trayvon Martin case appears here:  http://www.wtsp.com/news/article/ 251911/19/Prosecutor-in-Trayvon-Martin-case-wins-re-eleection .  Special celebrations are now scheduled for the Special Prosecutor who, on April 20, won re-election. 

The details of the Colombia dustup appear here; http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/pittsburghtrib/ news/s_791434.html .  Special Agent in Charge Paula Reid also enjoys the reputation of a “rising star.” 

 

  

Death by Swan

Death by Swan

By Meg Sonata

A wing span eight feet wide?  Is this the creature that courted the Leda in Ovid’s rendition of “Leda and the Swan”?  The story in the Los Angeles Times never refers to the classical myth of the great swan who was Zeus in disguise, but the proportions of the bird stun the reader.  Wings twice as wide as the bird’s height!  For all of its four feet from foot to head, it only weighs 30 pounds, on average, according to that article.   

The title announces the inevitable outcome when man takes on swan:  “’Killer’ swan attacks Illinois caretaker until he drowns.” 

Who should wonder that this animal can kill if it chooses?  Those magnificent wings transform into shields, clouds, and waves at the drop or shift of a feather.  They harbor cygnets, plow the deep, and then shift into daggers aimed in any direction.  No wonder, too, that the most famous ballet in dance history consists of a tribute to this awesome beast.  Comparing the statistics, it becomes clear:  This creature is almost all wings. 

It was this reader’s distinct privilege to grow up in the company of these birds.  On the tiny lake at the center of Cassadaga, New York, these mythical animals turn up the minute the snow releases them from their winter residence.  The impression created by their return is that they have come from the snow—and will return to it when winter overwhelms the village.  They are the snow, in all its killer capacity—and beauty, too.

The village next door, Lily Dale, New York, even reenacts the grandest ballet for residents every time they walk down Dale Drive.  At this next settlement, the swans swimming on a second lake are black, black as the most perfect top soil—and the perfect foil to the white of winter.  Think of obsidian in one location, and pearls in the next.  Then, imagine both being available to the traveler on foot who can span the distance without even overworking the imagination.

Then think of the poor human who got into a conflict with this bird in the LA Times report.  What chance did he have, fighting for his life?  Whole boats at amusement parks take the form of this creature.  On carousels, you may mount one and ride, if you wish.  The better part of wisdom would be:  Don’t even try.  They belong to the realm of Art, where artists compete to render them in oil, marble, and everything but feathers, because, who really understands feathers?

We can crush feathers, preen feathers, and sock them together in a bed.  Not once has humankind created a bird out of these elements which could span eight feet and kill a man, if it took it into its head or neck to do so.  The necks of such birds are used in combat between males, of course, and for attacking, if they choose.  But combine that lethal garden hose with shields of wings and a rampant beak—what can a man do but go under?

And let him go under the waves.  What will he do there against paddling feet that can stand, grasp, or mount an assault upon the air?  The white flash we see as these creatures mount the air should serve as a warning, which the classical authors of mythology got right:  We charge into their territory—and they are infamously territorial—at our peril.  The lake belongs to them, the winter and summer, too.  What remains for us to do but shiver in their reflections? 

For the complete LA Times article, please see http://www.latimes.com/news/nation/nationnow/la-na-nn-killer-swan-attacks-chicago-man-until-he-drowns-20120416,0,1669472.story.

For great works of art on this theme, as wells as a historical overview of swans rampant, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leda_and_the_Swan

Bill Maher and Body Parts

By Meg Curtis, PhD in English

Since Bill Maher’s vocabulary specializes in four letter words, here’s one to fit his fix:  JERK.  He also applied a three letter word to a portion of Ann Romney’s body which she slung into a saddle while struggling with MS and cancer.  And here’s another four letter word which identifies the body part of Bill Maher which he needs to remove from his oversize mouth right under his oversize nose:  FOOT.

Once he does that, maybe he can explain exactly how he graduated from Cornell University.  First, may we assume that Freshman English professors at that august institution still teach levels of diction?  As in, when he is addressing the next First Lady of the United States, it is unseemly, Bill, to refer to parts of the anatomy which he has never encountered, since she is too polite to put her foot you-know-where.

Second, he really should stop referring to the former governor of Alaska with despicable terms, too.  He does know what “despicable” means, doesn’t he—even if it contains TEN letters?  OMG!  This rant—another four letter word!—is turning into a vocabulary lesson for poor Bill, who could benefit from extending his diction to five letters, as in TWERP.  Who is he to attack Palin when Bill hasn’t even been elected governor of late night TV?

Well, maybe he has to do something to make viewers forget he probably struggled with Geography, as well as Freshman English, at good ole CU.  A four letter word vocabulary doesn’t allow a student to learn much about Alaska, which, for Bill’s benefit, this writer must note is larger than Texas, and filled to its gills with oil and gas reserves.  Now, who would trust Bill Maher to oversee such resources, when he can’t even get his diction together for a little chit-chat about housewives?

Furthermore, another lesson he avoided in Freshman English was good ole rhetorical fallacies.  These occur in chapter two of a standard reader in that class.  One of the most famous happens to be excessive generalizations, as in what does Bill know about housewives anyway?  He lumps them all together because he’s never been around a single one of them when they cleaned the toilets, where he left his diction. 

Obviously, he did master the Red Herring, as in, this is what a student talks about when he’s failing the class, first, because he didn’t do his homework on Alaska, and, second, because he never understood that this is an error—he’s not supposed to model rhetorical mistakes for the guys in his fraternity who expect to find every word he says funny.  Bill, the words that any self-respecting writer cannot spell out on this website are NOT funny.  Bill needs to take notes so he won’t forget.

Third, and most critical, Bill, the ad hominem attack is out of line, as in the student fails Freshman English every single time he uses this device.  It means that the speaker doesn’t know the issues from a hole in the ground, so he attacks his opponent instead—by calling her names.  The names he needs to remember are these:  Ann Romney, Sarah Palin, and Michele Bachmann.  These women possess outstanding vocabularies because they passed English while some Bill or another was playing puppet for some king of his sleazy fraternity.  

Need a Test for Teachers?

By Meg Curtis, PhD

The first time my son came home with illiterate comments on his school papers, I gasped.  How was he supposed to learn correct lessons if his school work revealed his instructor’s ignorance? 

Little pitchers may, infamously, have big ears, but little eyes absorb—and copy—every image they see, too.  In fact, they magnify those images because they come with grades for THEM.

Thus, the first test for teachers appears right in the margins on every student’s papers.  Take that dictionary down, and check the instructor’s spelling.  Fact-check that work like an editor.

No need for argument exists when the proof comes right into parents’ hands. Create a portfolio of the student’s work, which will be valuable for all concerned.

Listen when teachers speak at meetings and conferences, too.  Are they speaking nonsense?  Ask permission to record presentations and lessons when parents are allowed to visit classes. 

As the costs of education increase, parents can accept responsibility for ensuring their hard-earned dollars accomplish school districts’ stated objectives.  No lesson is more important this this:  Monkey See, Monkey Do.

Check those textbooks, too, pulling out as many dictionaries and encyclopedias as needed.  Texts with political agendas CANNOT replace those famous THREE R’s:  Responsibility, Responsibility, Responsibility.

Parents who do not stop illiterate teachers in their tracks must accept the bill for the failures to come.  Employers cannot afford to accept apologies, either.  It’s NOW OR NEVER for them.

College instructors CANNOT redo twelve years of mistakes.  They CANNOT even begin to teach students who come to them without an adequate foundation in Math, Reading, and Writing.

If responses to questions about inadequate teacher preparation consist of indignation and excuses, yank that kid out of that school ASAP.  It is NOT the parent’s responsibility to keep teachers happy.

So, overseeing homework means much, much more than helping Junior or Sis with projects.  In fact, if a majority of a student’s assignments consist of pictures and collections, that class is already off the Math, Reading, and Writing track.

This task of oversight need not be overwhelming.  Just set aside time on weekends, right along with time for sports and entertainment.  Families thrive when they learn together, and the time for learning is ALWAYS NOW.

In my son’s case, the next step was interviewing the principal at another school.  She couldn’t believe her eyes when he pulled out his paperback copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology.  

He looked sheepish, since he carried it in his jeans’ pocket, where it had suffered considerable damage.  She turned to me with a steely glare.  This one wasn’t going to get away, it said. 

“Are you looking for a school or shopping?” she asked me.

“Can you keep him safe and give him honest grades?” I asked her.

Since I declared that shopping was not on my schedule that day, she agreed that a school cannot function otherwise.  That principal and my son set off down that hall fast, afraid that Mom might change her mind.

We kept our bargain.  Never did I have to consult with her about illiterate comments on papers.  Never did I see projects in place of papers and math problems and as many books as my son could carry. 

Neither one of us expected to be popular in this mortal life.  She was the disciplinarian at her school.  My son was mad for a considerable period of time about switching schools.

What can I say?  Better well-read than dead.  She kept him physically, intellectually, and spiritually alive.  Both of us considered our duties a sacred calling. 

The only time she smiled at me occurred when I purchased a bee-hive candle for her.  THAT was my son’s going-away present when he left for high school.  Some make it, and some do not.  I assume she planned, as usual, to maintain the light. 

So we succeeded at more than we bargained for.  At his high school, one of his teachers used my son to correct other students’ papers.  He became a lawyer.  Perhaps, teaching never seemed to him an honest game.    

Should Dogs Wear Clothes?

By Meg Curtis

The first time I saw a dog in pajamas, I stood dumbfounded.  Why would anyone torture a canine that way?  The dog hated those flannel sleeves and legs.  He even hid under the bed!

Worse yet, nobody had asked him his preference in fabric patterns.  A little boy doesn’t belong in pastel pink with ribbons!  What’s the matter with dog owners in this country, anyway?

Nevertheless, the burgeoning American canine accoutrement industry doesn’t care what I think, and numerous dog owners don’t, either.  Aisles upon aisles of dog clothing loom before us.

Parties for dressing up pugs—with those monkey faces—are just the beginning of a nation gone mad, I concluded.  MY pug didn’t need gray flannels and a navy blazer to prove he was a man!

Then, of course, I purchased a cockalier, who has ideas of his own.  This dog cannot wait to don the latest apparel for his clan—so I bought him a tartan shirt, and he won’t take it off!

His wardrobe now includes the following:

A Harris tweed overcoat for winter (so ice won’t clog his fur)

A cable knit sweater (because he likes those Celtic designs)

A hooded parka vest (which he prefers to wear sans hood)

A leopard print sweat shirt (for those chilly spring and fall days)

A full cat-suit of pajamas (He HATES two-piece pajamas!  He also LOVES cats!)

And that dynamite tartan all-purpose tartan shirt (He’s SO proud of that masculine collar!)

The first time I took him outside in that shirt, he barked as usual at a delivery man.  The poor worker had to ask:  “Will he bite?” 

To which I answered:  “No, he’s just so happy in his new shirt!”

The man didn’t even blink.  He just slobbered:  “Awww!  Isn’t he ADORABLE?”   

So much for American culture.  It’ll get you in the end.  A nation of dog-nuts, that’s what we are.  And our dogs think they’re human, of course.  Mine prefers brown sugar Pop-Tarts to dog treats.  He eats raw carrots, too, because he’s heard they’re good for him.

I can’t even bring myself to apologize for his attitudes.  Every time he barks, I know he’s on the job.  He’s never heard of unemployment—and wouldn’t believe in it, if he had.

He lies at the door—in his shirt, of course—with his nose to the crack of air.  He’s tracking the scents coming from down the street and across town.  He doesn’t trust anybody except me.

He’s the best security system in the world.  If I’d been born in another country, I wouldn’t know this, but I do because I am a 100% patriotic American dog nut, just like the rest of my fellow citizens, who keep dog clothiers in business. 

My dog’s relatives have served in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and even down in local swamps where children sometimes escape to drive their human parents crazy.  He and his associates converse under their breath all night while we sleep soundly.

He doesn’t have a retirement plan.  He has no social security whatsoever.  So, if he wants to eat Pop-Tarts while wearing his favorite shirt in my living room, I will sit right beside him, and yip, “Your name is Loyalty—when it’s not Babe Ruth!”

Politicians come and go.  Babe Ruth STAYS.  He even shakes on command.--and not just because he’s determined to get dirt out of his wardrobe.  He takes this woman seriously.  He takes every cry and moan he hears seriously—even from way over town.

So, I understand now.  He wears clothes because he’s joined the human species.  He EARNS his Pop-Tarts, too.  He NEVER takes down-time unless I’m down, too.  The rest of the time, he makes me laugh because, as a ball-player, he won’t quit anymore than Babe Ruth.

Richard Scarry Still Takes The Cake!

By Meg Curtis

Parents seeking ways to divorce their kids from that computer need look no farther.  Just plug them into Richard Scarry’s books.  Begin with I Am A Bunny at age one or two, and that child will learn to read along with the best friends in the world. 

His classic works continue the artist’s rendering of human character through animals, made famous by Aesop.  Scarry’s imagination extends this menagerie to worms and pie-rats.  His drawings not only illustrate his stories, but also illustrate how to draw, focusing on lines. 

These books also tempt that child into the outside world, where s/he must learn vocabulary.  In addition, they convey the sense of community.  Truck drivers and fire personnel whiz down the streets of his residence, which always carries the address Busy Town.

What better way to keep that child busy, too—instead of screaming outside or punching noise-makers which drive the neighbors bonkers?  His classic treatments of equipment, vehicles, and words lend themselves easily to related activities—drawing, exploring—walking and walking.

If that child doesn’t make it outside, s/he won’t know it exists.  Scarry brings the outside inside, and never lets his audience forget interaction.  Characters function in ensembles here, illustrating, too, the very nature of friends and family.

I Am A Bunny demonstrates how this interaction begins before a child can even make sentences.  Here is Amazon’s brief synopsis:

“I am a bunny. My name is Nicholas. I live in a hollow tree.

In the spring, Nicholas likes to sniff the flowers, and in the summer, watch the frogs in the pond. In the fall, he watches the animals getting ready for winter, and in winter, watches the snow falling from the sky. This beautifully illustrated, gentle story is one of Golden’s most beloved titles.”

Community begins with a sense of humanity’s interaction with Nature.  Every flower, frog, animal, and snowflake lives in the same world children do.  Cherish books which teach this lesson first.  They supply the foundation which yields compassionate and responsible citizens. 

But cherish these books, too, because they don’t preach or indoctrinate.  They just invite a child into the wonder of a world too curious and fantastic to ignore or misunderstand.  Humor arises naturally here, too—the result of the author’s sly eye when he knows children like his very own. 

  

Of Dandelions and Lions

The staying power of the teaching profession resides in this appeal:  that the teacher continues to learn along with the child in all of us.  When a child brings that adult a sparkling dandelion, the teacher rejoices that this youngster is doing more than playing fetch.  That child trusts the teacher to explain the wonders of the world, and the teacher knows she will fail to explain God, death, etc.

Yet s/he will struggle on along with Walt Whitman, who confessed in Part VI of his immortal poem:

"A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he."

S/he will struggle along with Socrates, too, who also confessed in Plato’s Apology:  “And this I know:  that I know nothing.”

S/he will see in those bright faces full of wonder and inquiry the promise even of Christ, who said in Matthew 19:14:  “Let the little children come unto me…for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

In such appropriate awe lies the beginning of all the sciences, arts, and humility which humans ever know.  If they retain that awe, their lives lie before them—and the teacher witnesses the cosmos opening in their stunned eyes.  If their eyes close in resignation and defeat, the teacher must search for the child again, and then s/he will bring the dandelion—or leaves of grass—and ask in turn:  “What is this?” 

Like Socrates and Christ, too, Walt Whitman works by analogy to arrive at workable hypotheses:

"I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord….

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation." 

As the search continues, the seeker returns to the beginning:  to spring and the eternal quest for understanding which renders life a continuous miracle.  Each time a child shrieks with delight:  “I get it!” or dumbfounds an instructor with the simplest question, such as “What is a fact?” then Athens and Avon begin again, too. 

Faced with the cosmos, all of us are beginners.  When we forget this requirement for learning, we slouch, and the world turns gray.  But it is the miracle of teaching that sets that wheel of inquiry spinning, and insists there is—and will always be—more, more, more to learn.  As teachers convey this principle to their charges, they become the dandelion, the leaves, the very wind which brings blooms and fruit where we least expect them.