Get Offa MY Cloud!

Years ago--back in grad school days (late 60s, early 70s) I read a popular science book called The Territorial Imperative (1966), by Robert Ardrey. I underlined it heavily. Of course, I cannot for the life of me find that book right now--hard to believe, considering the careful, fastidious nature of the arrangement of our books. Oh well. Memory will serve--or refuse (which is more likely).

I thought of that book today because of a response to one of these posts from a FB friend, a former student who became a teacher herself. I had written about my (and others') territorial behavior in coffee shops. Because I was the New Guy at Bruegger's in the morning, I was wondering if I'd displaced someone--was sitting in a spot that someone had considered his or hers. (Are guys more territorial than women? Based on coffee-shop behavior, I'm not so sure: I've seen some women who enter the shop, then beeline for the place where they always sit--and look grim and even homicidal when it's not available.)

The story is in this
collection.

And speaking of "displacement" (notice how digressive I am when I'm not sure what I'm going to say?): Flannery O'Connor's great short story "The Displaced Person" involves an immigrant family (fleeing WW II) who go to work on a farm in the American South. The immigrants, of course, have been displaced--but soon they displace the other hired family, whose father is a bit lazy and more than a bit less skilled than the immigrant father. Let's just say that all does not end happily. (Here's a link to that story.)

Ardrey and O'Connor (and countless other writers) have, in one way or another, pointed out the effects of that aggressive territorial gene that still reigns in our chromosomes. In local and geopolitics, of course, it's bloodily patent. This land is mine; no, it's mine!

But my FB friend had noticed it as a teacher. And so, probably, has just about every other teacher with his or her eyes open. When I taught in public school, I almost always assigned seats--for a variety of reasons (cutting off potential discipline "issues," forcing folks to get to know one another), but one of the most important reasons was to preempt the scuffles (and sometimes more) that broke out and quickly escalated when someone took someone else's spot. (I changed the arrangement every quarter--what a guy!)

Later in my career--at Western Reserve Academy--I did not assign seats at all. I didn't need to: The students did it. After a day or two (while things sorted out) they always sat in the same places, every day, all year, altering only when friendships and loves and alliances changed. Occasionally there would be some ... discomfort ... when more than one person craved that spot, a discomfort eventually relieved when one or the other arrived earlier to class every day.

Often, too, I would have a sort of Lone Ranger kid, one who had a weak territorial gene (or a perverse sense of humor). He (yes, invariably a guy) would arrive early and sit ... wherever. The "owner" of the seat would arrive--and sometimes complain: He's in my seat! If it was early in the year, I would say, I don't assign seats--so you can't--a response, in retrospect, that was kind of facile and very ridiculous. Later on, I would say, Billy/Billie always sits there--so ...  And the usurper would move on to annoy another.

I may have told this story before (?), but when my dad was in his final years (and no longer driving), he liked to get to church at least 45 minutes before the service started. Why? Because another guy liked the same pew and position that Dad did. One day (visiting--Mom and Dad were living in Pittsfield, MA--Mom was out of town) I was a little late on Sunday morning to pick up Dad, and when I got to his place, he was standing outside--in the rain--waiting for me. He moved as quickly as I'd seen him move in years and he got in the car with alacrity (dispensing a few choice words the while about the vast importance of filial devotion and promptness). We zoomed off to church. I dropped him at the door, and after I parked, I hurried back inside, where I found him, in "his" pew, in "his" place. I sat beside him just as the Other Guy (another older gentleman) was moving down the aisle toward us. They nodded silently to each other. Dad's tacit message: I got you this time! The Other Guy's: There's always another Sunday!

The reasons for our territoriality are obvious: If strangers arrive, then food supplies become stressed, our women become vulnerable, our other resources dwindle ... yadda yadda yadda.

But it's a bit depressing, isn't it (just a bit?), to think that this gene (so territorial itself that it will not surrender its spot, its dominance), this ancient, once-useful gene, still reigns within us, even in such amiable places as coffee shops and classrooms. And, of course, on international borders where bullets fly and people bleed.

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein, Part II: 39

Twelve

Friday night was always the best night to go to the library. Gil and I knew that no one else would be there (still football season), so we agreed to meet there to work on our science fair project. I’d called him after school on Friday, and it was not the warmest of conversations. I had no idea what was wrong—again! (Why had he left me behind in the hall? Why was his manner with me so … changeable? One minute, oven; the next, freezer.)

But I was determined to find out—or to just plow ahead and pretend nothing was wrong. The whole phone conversation was almost infantile in its simplicity—like an introductory lesson for people trying to learn English as a second language.

“Hello?”

“Gil?”

“Vickie.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to plan some more for our science fair project.”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Breathing. I tried a question.

“Want to go to the library after supper?”

Pause.

“Sure.”

“See you there.”

“Sure.”

Click.

Isn’t that exciting? Romantic?

I hesitate to use the word romantic, by the way. But Harriet’s puzzled, quizzical, amused look in English class had announced to me that she had known something before even I did. And that “something” was that I was having certain … feelings. For Gil. Who was responding in the oddest ways. Like avoiding me in the halls. Like offering me one-word sentences in conversations.

There was no way I was going to make a fool of myself over him, though. Besides, I knew nothing about girl-boy things—well, except what I’d read in books. And some of what I’d read there just seemed impossible even to imagine. So I decided not to. Though I’m guessing that most people are no more successful at controlling their imaginations that I was in the ensuing days and weeks.

Another reason for the library trip: I also needed to start my local history project, which I’d sort of dropped the night I first found Gil looking at newspaper microfilm about my house. I’d been so upset that night that every other thought had just fled my brain “like bandits from a burglar alarm.” (I stole that line from Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.—one of my favorite writers. It’s in his story “Harrison Bergeron.”)

I was a few minutes late, and when I entered the door, Mrs. Bishop, the librarian, motioned for me to come to the front desk, where she sat, reading, on a stool.

Strangely, she whispered to me. I mean, why whisper when there’s no one else in the room? “Victoria,” she said, “that boy is here again tonight.” She looked at me closely.

“I know,” I said brightly. “I’m meeting him here.”

“You are? But the last time—”

“Things change,” I said. “They change like you wouldn’t believe.”

Mrs. Bishop was smiling at me. “Then I guess I can tell you where he is,” she said.

“Sure.”

“Back in the microform room.”

I moved quietly back to that room, thinking I’d surprise Gil—maybe scare him. Maybe if I put a little jolt of surprise in his life, he’d warm up again. But I didn’t know. All of this was just too new for me. I felt like an idiot—not a pleasant feeling.

When I peeked around the corner, I saw him, once again intently staring at microfilm, once again writing quick notes on a yellow tablet.

I crept right up behind him—he had no idea I was there!—and looked at the screen. I’m not sure what I expected to see there—my house again?—but I certainly was surprised when I saw the image he was staring at.

Sleepy Hollow

If you've read Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" (my students have!), and if you've watched any of the episodes of the new Fox series Sleepy Hollow, you know that the only resemblance between the two is a few names (the Headless Horseman, Ichabod Crane, Katrina Van Tassel) and the setting near Tarrytown, NY. Just about every other thing is totally different.

(Here's a link to the text of the original story.)

The gawky, superstitious, clueless, ever-hungry, timorous teacher/singing master whom Irving created is now an action hero of the American Revolution (it was he who beheaded the Horseman in battle--about the same time that the Horseman killed him); he has risen from the dead in contemporary Sleepy Hollow/Tarrytown (no one in that town, by the way, appears to have read Irving, either--and, FYI, the mascot of the actual Sleepy Hollow High, I kid you not, is The Horseman). The task of  the new Ichabod (who attended Oxford University) is not to court Katrina or survive another day in a one-room schoolhouse; it's to battle the evil forces who/that have ridden out of the Book of Revelation to threaten Life As We Know It. Yikes.

Katrina, who toyed with and dumped Crane in the original story, is now an ethereal creature, once married to Ichabod; she now lives in some kind of Between World (she visits him--and at least one other--in dreams and in other ways). Crane has teamed up with Lt. Abbie Mills, a Sleepy Hollow cop, a young attractive African American woman who has issues. Her sister has even more issues. The police captain is comfortably credulous and lets Lt. Mills--oh, hell, let's be informal: Abbie--pretty much run around wherever she needs to in order to save humankind. Decent of him. Although he does revert from time to time to his role as crusty captain--not willing to commit--not until Abbie or Ichabod convinces him it's time to act. (What a fresh idea!)

I really like the guy who portrays Crane--Tom Mison--who gives him a kind of intellectual gravity and some humor, as well (and who has a sort of Sherlockian capability, too). I think, though (and we've seen, via DVR, only about a half-dozen of the episodes), that it's time he changed his clothes. He's worn the same since he crawled out of the grave in Episode One--after having lain there since the Revolutionary War. I'm guessing he's got to smell a little ripe ... overripe.


Abbie's character also has a solid player in the role--Nicole Beharie--and there's some sexual electricity between Ichabod and her; we wonder how Katrina will deal with it. I also love the interplay between the two as Ichabod tries to learn about the modern world. One funny moment: He tries to remove the clear, hard plastic cover from some product he's bought. (I've been there, done that--rather, failed to have done that.)

The gore in the show is not too gory--just enough to elicit an ugh! now and then. The writing is decent, sometimes even very good. In my view, it's better in the scenes when some apocalyptic creature is not in action.

Of course, the writers have made another major change from Irving's tale, which has no religious thrust. (In fact, we're convinced that it's only a disguised Brom Bones who has done the riding--not an actual Hessian trooper who lost his head in battle--all in an attempt to humiliate Crane and frighten him away.) The writers ask us to accept that the Book of Revelation is literally true--I'd rather not think so, thank you--and that Ichabod Crane (Ichabod Crane!), back from the dead, is the only one who can save us. That's quite a premise.

I'm not sure I'm going to watch any more episodes. They've become formulaic (a Bad Thing arrives;some heads go missing;  the Good Things win by the end of the hour)--and I think I'd rather read that classic tale that Washington Irving, who lies now in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, published nearly 200 years ago (1820).

Oh, and for true entertainment, you've got to watch the Disney cartoon of the tale--one of the first films I can remember seeing, probably because the Headless Horseman scared the hell out of me.  Here's a link to it.

First Days at Bruegger's Bagels

Obviously not taken today: Picture all in WHITE!

The Bruegger's Bagels in Hudson, Ohio, is in this building--enlarge the photo, and you'll see that it occupies the right part of the building (the western side). It's about a half-mile from our house, I guess (maybe less? GoogleMaps says it's .4 mi), a little farther for me than Hattie's was. That's all right. The walking does me good--though the mounds of snow and bitter temperatures the past couple of days have been an annoyance (I confess: I drove one day). You can also see that Mammoth Video was once there in the center of the building--Mammoth Video, now as extinct as its namesake.

Bruegger's is actually a pretty large space--deep rather than wide--and has several large booths and tables of various sizes. I try to arrive about 8 a.m., though they open at 5:30. (I'm no longer the early riser I once was.) I have noticed some "regulars" already--some of whom I've seen at other times in other coffee venues. Coffee allegiances shift. Or coffee places close.

I've been sitting the past couple of days in one of the booths. I don't know people well enough yet to determine if I've appropriated someone's spot. But I've detected no glares, felt no Bowie knives slipping between my ribs. So maybe I'm all right? I don't really care where I sit ... yet. I'm willing to move somewhere else ... so far. But soon that old territorial stuff will kick in (I can't help it: genes, you know?), and I will be the one glaring and Bowie-knifing if "my" booth is not available when I walk in.

Bruegger's has a New Year's deal for you. For $169 (that's right, $169!) you can buy a 2014-stamped travel-mug that will give you "free" coffee (and soda and tea) for the rest of the year. I thought about it for a couple of days, then pulled the trigger. I'm looking at my $169 mug right now. And doing a little math. Let's say that a cup of coffee is about $2 ... hmmmm, that means I will not break even until I have had 84.5 cups of coffee. If I go six days a week (as is my wont), that will take eighty-five Bruegger's days--about three months (can't forget the Sundays). That means I'll get about nine free months of beverages! My coffee today cost me $169. Tomorrow, just $84.50. The next day, $56.33. Won't take long ...

... unless ...

And here's what I told the young woman at the register the morning that she sold me my cup. "You know what's kind of creepy about this?"

She looked at me, figuring maybe I'm the creep? "No, sir."

"Bruegger's is betting I'm going to die in the next couple of months."

She stared at me--some sort of internal debate?  Do I laugh or call 911?

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein, Part II: 38

We heard a couple of more readers before the girls returned, Dawn’s face tear-smeared with red. In that dress, she looked as if she’d been jilted at the altar. She didn’t look at all at Ms. Medwin but moved straight to her seat, where she sat down in a puff of gown that kept her about a foot off the chair. She stared at her desktop.

The other girls—all but Harriet—also sat and stared downward. Harriet stood by her desk and said, “We’re back.” Pause. “And we’re good.”

“That’s nice,” said Ms. Medwin in a voice that declared That’s not nice. Then she looked softly over at Dawn. “Are you all right now, Dawn?”

“Unh.”

“Does that mean ‘yes’?”

“Unh.”

“All right,” said Ms. Medwin, “we still have time for our final reader … Harriet Eastbrook.”

Harriet picked up her poem and walked briskly to the lectern, where nice applause pooled to wait for her. “My poem,” she said, “is based on the grave of Mariana Chabot, Nov. 12, 1819, to Dec. 5, 1889. On her stone it says: “Daughter, Sister, Mother, Grandmother. ‘Fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky”—William Wordsworth.”

She took a deep breath, looked up, and began reading in the voice I’d learned to love:

I was the only daughter my parents made.

Four sons, though. Four older brothers who

Both tormented and protected me.

I helped my mother with the household chores

And never dreamed I’d have a life

That would be a bit different from hers.

But then I found and married Leon,

A kind man,

Before our marriage,

A man whose handsome face

Gave no hint of his horrible heart.

I gave birth to a screaming son

Whose unpleasant ways never really disappeared.

I was glad when he’d grown and gone away.

Years later, I learned that he had fathered a child,

A girl,

A girl he’d named Mary.

(I wondered if he’d thought of me.

Probably not.)

I never saw her.

By then I’d left Leon

And moved to London, Connecticut,

Where I worked in a library

And to my chest I hugged the books

That never betrayed me.

When I died,

The other librarians had book

And bake sales and raised the money

To send me back here

To lie near my cruel family

Under this sad stone.

The applause was genuine afterwards, and Harriet told us who William Wordsworth was and gave us copies of his poem that has the line “Fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky.”

I just stared at her, feeling heat arriving in my face, staying there. In ways, I had seen myself in her words, saw myself hiding in the pages of books. Finding comfort there. Walking back to her desk, she had given me the most fleeting of looks, the most subtle of smiles.

While I clapped, along with everyone else.

I didn’t say anything in the discussion afterwards, even though I wanted to tell Harriet that I both loved and hated her poem. Later, I’d try to figure out what to say to her.

With about a minute to go, some of the bored kids started shuffling their feet and sitting up straighter, ready to launch themselves out of their seats and toward the next class that would bore them.

But Ms. Medwin had a few more things to say. “Thank all of you for volunteering to read today,” she said. “It takes a lot of courage to stand in front of people with something you’ve created. I’ve decided, by the way, that I will be publishing all of your poems for the school—a little booklet. But we’ll talk more about it later.”

She looked at the clock. “I see I’ve kept you eight seconds too long,” she said. “Shame on me.” And just before everyone got up to go, she added, “Dawn, I’d like to see you a minute.” That was one of the best things I’d heard all period.

As we started to move out of the room, I fell in step with Gil.

“You didn’t read your poem,” I said.

“You either,” he mumbled. Then accelerated past me down the hall.

"I don't want anything ... REALLY ..."

I tried to tell this to my family: I don't want anything for Christmas. Or, for that matter, for my birthday, Father's Day, or any of  those others days that exist to light a fire (guilt's the fuel) under the economy and to force us to think less ill of our relatives. (Or more ill, depending on the gift!)

Things were not always thus, of course. When I was a lad--and later--I wanted everything. As a kid, I believed that cap guns were a sure thing. Sports equipment. Money. (I often got things I hated--underwear, a sweater, a handkerchief (!), and, from my grandmother--always--a pack of thank-you notes, which my mom always encouraged--no, forced--me to employ asap.)

Later, trying to live on a beginning teacher's salary (not much in the mid-1960s), I also wanted everything--especially money. But clothing suddenly became much cooler to get on birthday/Christmas/whatever. Books started becoming a winner, too--and remained so for decades.

But as I've gotten older (and as I've had to deal with a relentless illness), I've realized that I don't want anything. Well, I want something, but it's not something that you can give me. Three guesses what it is.

Every single thing that comes into the house now has to find a quick exit. Goodwill, return-for-credit, Mr. Trashman, re-gifting. We are trying to give away/sell/throw away things we don't absolutely need--or love. Or will have value--sentimental or monetary--for the next generation(s) of Dyers. I mean, objects are nothing to me now but weight; rather than thrill me they depress me. I look at a gift now and think/say: What am I going to do with this?

My family--bless them, bless them all--are deaf, however. They gave me piles of things at Christmas (from clothing to objets d'art to gift cards)--and ever since I've been a Busy Little Beaver ridding myself of them. Donating some things to charity, giving things to the English Departments at Hiram College and Western Reserve Academy, returning things to shops, etc. I'm not trying to be rude--or ungrateful (I mean, really, it's flattering that someone would see something and think I would like it, right?)--but I just can't have a single other thing in my life right now.

I've reached the time, I fear, when a gift is an unwelcome burden, a burden I have less and less energy to cope with.

The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein, Part II: 37

“Thank you very much,” said Ms. Medwin. “You’ve created quite a character, Dawn. Now … are there any questions or comments?”

I had some.

But I kept them to myself. For many reasons. I didn’t want to put Harriet’s friend on the spot, even though I didn’t think Harriet ought to be her friend. But I knew already that we often can’t help who are friends turn out to be. There are all sorts of reasons, ranging from convenience to necessity to pity to whatever.

I also didn’t want to challenge Dawn Softlight in front of the class: That was a certain way to end up either farther outside the School Circle than I already was. I mean, I don’t mind being left alone (in fact, I love being left alone!), but I’d learned that if I was too aggressive about my outsider status, then kids no longer ignored me. Then they hassled me.

So I just sat there with a sweet smile while Silence ruled the room. No one was saying anything. Kids had been more responsive when Dwayne Hardfall had finished reading his poem a little earlier in the period. Much of it was praise. That was so awesome, Hardfall! And I didn’t even know you could write! That one got quite a few laughs—even from Dwayne, because one of his best friends had said it. (If anyone outside his friends had said something like that, there would have been Destruction and Death after school that day.)

But there were some good questions and comments, too. Like Where did you get the idea for the brain cancer? I was looking right at Dwayne when that question came, and I swear I saw tears leap to his eyes. My grandma, he began. But that was all. He just put his head down, and the rest of us just sat there, once again in wonder at Dwayne Hardfall.

People also asked him about the birds (his uncle had a pet store) and about hating the father (Dwayne: No comment.) and about leaving town. There we got into a really good discussion when Ms. Medwin asked, Why do you think many young people always want to go live somewhere else than their own hometown?

All kinds of kids (not me) said things about wanting to have a fresh start, about being away from parents who’d made all their decisions, about wanting to see more of the world. That sort of thing.

But now Dawn Softlight had no questions or comments. But she just stood there in that wedding gown with her triumphant smile fastened on her face.

Ms. Medwin tried again, “Come on … doesn’t anyone have a question for Dawn? Or a comment?”

A couple of kids muttered It was good and I liked it. But nothing more sharp-edged than that.

So Ms. Medwin asked, “Whose wedding dress are you wearing, Dawn?”

“It was my mom’s!” she chirped.

“It’s very lovely,” said Ms. Medwin. Pause. “And, Dawn, tell me, why did you decide to wear a wedding dress? Does it fit somehow with the poem you wrote?”

Dawn looked shocked. “Fit with the poem? Oh, no way! I just wore it because you told us to dress up, and this was the fanciest dress in the house!”

Silence.

One of Dawn’s friends—maybe remembering that part of our grade was based on how well we handled questions?—chirped, “I like how you said you stayed young and beautiful forever.”

Other kids: Yeah, that was great/awesome/etc.

Silence.

Ms. Medwin: “What did you mean by saying you stayed young and beautiful forever? I mean, if the person is dead and under the ground—”

“You’re always picking on me!” cried Dawn. “It’s just a stupid poem!”

You got that right, I thought.

But then Dawn was running out of the room crying—with a flock of friends clucking and ruffling feathers right behind her. Harriet, looking reluctant, was the last of them. She glanced at me and shrugged. Then looked at Ms. Medwin. “I’ll go get her,” she said. “See if I can bring her back.”

“Thank you,” said Ms. Medwin, who seemed to be fighting the urge to say something nasty. At least, that’s what I hoped she was doing.