I did very well. Got a brand new camera. One of the reasons that my blogging has been so sporadic these past few months is that Levon (my laptop) is too advanced for some of my software, including as it turns out, my old camera’s interface. For the past few months, I’ve had to load my photos onto my husband’s computer, I’ve had to upload RSS from the computer in the office, and accomplish various other website functions in different locales—not exactly as quick and easy as it all should be. But the new camera is Vista compatible, so we at least have that problem solved.

And here’s proof: myself and my children on Mothers’ Day. I love the way these kids are turning out. I love talking with them, listening to their opinions, and just hanging out with them. They are my favorite people.

Oh, and I got new Neil Diamond music too (because man does not live by Levon alone). And, no, you cannot shame me based on my musical tastes. That ship sailed a lifetime ago. Hear me:  I have no shame!

By the way, this photo will self-destruct at the end of the week.

I'm not the only one who discovered Levon Helm for the first time last year. In the fall, Levon put out his first studio album in some twenty years:  Dirt Farmer. The collection of traditional tunes, mostly from his childhood, earned him a Grammy Award just this spring. Here's a sample:

Yeah, it's long, but nobody said you had to watch the whole thing. But on the other hand, the boss has to go to lunch sometime...

Virgil Caine is the name, and I served on the Danville train,
'Til Stoneman's cavalry came and tore up the tracks again.
In the winter of '65, we were hungry, just barely alive.
By May the tenth, Richmond had fell, it's a time I remember, oh so well.
…
Like my father before me, I will work the land,
Like my brother above me, who took a rebel stand.
He was just eighteen, proud and brave, But a Yankee laid him in his grave,
I swear by the mud below my feet,
You can't raise a Caine back up when he's in defeat.

From “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” by Robbie Robertson as recorded by The Band in 1969.

* As it turns out, there were two Uriah Helms (cousins), both born in Roane County, Tennessee, in 1833, both of whom eventually came west, and both of whom are buried in the same pioneer cemetery in Fayette County, Illinois (the very definition of a genealogist’s nightmare). I was contacted by a descendent of the Uriah Helm I’ve mentioned here, and she helped me sort out their tangled lives. The Uriah mentioned above was known to the family as “White ’Riar” (because of his fair complexion) and the darker one was called “Black ’Riar.” And that’s so cool that I had to drink a glass of vodka and hit myself in the head with a hammer to celebrate. Seriously though, I wish I had come from a family with a White ’Riar and a Black ’Riar—such days will never come again!

I received a book in the mail today that I had ordered from an internet bookseller. Tucked inside the front cover was a printed sheet of paper recapping my order and a handwritten note saying, “Thank you, Kristy, for your business!” It was written in the sort of jaunty script with fancy underlining and almost Victorian embellishing that I will never be able to produce myself—pretty handwriting is simply not one of my skills. What a nice touch, I thought, as I absently turned the paper over to see what was printed on the other side. I discovered that the type there had nothing to do with my order. It appeared, instead, that the merchant was doing his/her best to extend our natural resources by using the reverse side of scrap paper to print customer receipts. The original was obviously an early draft of a persuasive essay of some sort. And this is what it said:

Hutch preferred better food, more intelligent women and was a deep thinker. David Soul played this character with some charm and finesse. There were moments when I would think that maybe Hutch was the better of the two, but this didn’t last for long. Starsky would do some crazy or macho thing on the show, and there I was, back in love with Starsky. David Soul did have a couple of songs on the radio. This boosted our opinion of him for a while, but in the end, he just didn’t measure up to the charisma of Starsky.

Choosing between Starsky and Hutch? And Sophie thought she had a hard choice?

Please.

There are a couple of you who read here regularly who talk about food in such competent and loving terms that I would NEVER want you to sample my oh-so pedestrian cooking. It would be too embarrassing. ’Nations falls into this category. So does Hayden, who, nevertheless, has been hinting that I should bake some imaginary chocolate chip cookies for her as her reward for her willingness to endorse sock monkeys in the upcoming presidential election. Long story*. Anyway, sounds fair, but here’s the deal. My neighbor Judith (Norse Goddess of Snowshoeing Judith) is a small business woman in Kent and makes it her business to know every other small business person in Kent. Because Tuesday weather (our appointed snowshoeing day) doesn’t always cooperate with our snowshoeing goals, I often find myself at some hole-in-the-wall Kent restaurant on a Tuesday afternoon having lunch with Judith as an alternative. That’s how I became acquainted with what I assume is the only authentic Jewish deli in Kent. Let us pause here to appreciate the odds of Kent having even this single Jewish deli; can there be any doubt that we do, indeed, live in an age of miracles?

Where was I? Oh yeah. Cookies. Pam, who runs the Jewish deli, sells these chocolate chip-oatmeal-coconut cookies that taste like heaven on a plate. I’ve been on a quest since my last trip to the deli to find a recipe to replicate them (since Pam’s not sharing). My first attempt produced a very dry cookie, one that crumbled into sand and gravel the next day (a condition that prevented no one here from eating them, however). I did a bit more recipe research and started my second attempt. “This time,” I assured my family, “it will be much better. This time, there’s a secret ingredient!”

They all looked up from their video games and newspapers and asked in unison, “Love?”

“Well…no,” I admitted. “Sour cream.”

All three went back to their activities, clearly disappointed in my standards.

The resultant cookies were not very similar to Pam’s, but they were pretty damn good. Research continues.

*And really, no matter who you endorse in the upcoming election, you’re endorsing a sock monkey, at least on some level—aren’t you?

Happy Leap Day!

I looked at the 2008 calendar last year and realized that, not only would we have a Leap Day this year, but it would be on a Friday. For some reason this really excited me, and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out a suitable way to celebrate this rare occasion. Unfortunately, nothing occurred to me that seemed suitable, so I’ll just celebrate by wishing you all a special day, however you wish to acknowledge the cosmic weirdness of it all.

JoJo made the strategic mistake of asking me how I feel about the WASL test—a move not unlike standing neck deep in snow up at Snoqualmie Pass and yodeling like a drunk Swiss goat herder as the avalanche control cannons fire all around you. Yes, there are many ways to bring a load of misery down on your head. Asking me about the WASL is one method that certainly qualifies. For those of you who are not local, WASL stands for Washington Assessment of Student Learning. It is the standardized test that the State imposed on us several years ago. At the outset, it was administered to 4^th, 7^th, and 10^th graders and covered the subjects of reading, writing, and math. In recent years, however, it has metastasized to nearly all grade levels, testing various subjects in each grade, and has expanded to cover other core subject areas including Science. Passing the 10^th grade version of the test is now a graduation requirement in Washington.

On the surface, it doesn’t sound so bad. It’s marketed as a method for holding students accountable for basic learning and teachers accountable for meeting the goals. Unfortunately, there is little agreement (as you might imagine) in what constitutes “basic” learning. The test sets itself up, not merely to test student knowledge, but student understanding. Same thing, you might say. But it’s really not. Let me give you an example: Most of us (who have reached a certain age) learned the multiplication table by rote. We could tell you that 7x8=56 without giving that statement anymore thought than a line of song lyrics that we learned in childhood—it simply comes to us automatically. For the WASL, however, it is not enough for your child to produce the answer 56 when asked what 7x8 equals. The child must also illustrate the concept behind 7x8=56. In other words, the student will draw 56 dots (or other symbols) and corral them into seven groups, each containing eight of those dots. In this way we can tell that the students has not just the knowledge, but the understanding, that 7x8=56.

Me, I’m from the school of realists that declares “I don’t need to know how an internal combustion engine works in order to be able to drive a car.” Yet, I can still see how it would be desirable, in the ideal world, for students to be able to have this level of understanding behind their learning. But imagine being a teacher and having to teach ALL math concepts to this degree. Now image extending this requirement to your reading curriculum. And writing. And Science. And remember that we have No-Child-Left-Behind requirements to obtain our federal funding, so be sure you go at a slow enough pace and with enough repetition to make sure ALL your students are getting it. Can you see now why all these subjects areas now amount to nothing more than test preparation?

Oh, but that’s not even the worst of it. Not only have we cut the core subjects back to test prep, but we’ve eliminated nearly every other subject in the curriculum in order to accommodate test prep. Let me give you an example. My son is in 4^th grade this year. On his first progress report, he had all A’s except for spelling. In spelling, he had a F. As a former teacher, this didn’t make much sense to me, so I made a point of asking the teacher about the school’s spelling program at our conference. Guess how my son’s school teaches 4^th graders spelling. Go ahead, guess. It turns out that they distribute a list on Monday as part of a homework packet. Then, on Friday, they have a test. Nothing in between. So I asked the teacher, “So, what are you doing to actually teach my son these words?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “They are part of his expected homework.”

“Right,” I agreed, “But my understanding is that homework is intended to reinforce classroom learning, not substitute for it. So, what are you doing, during the school week, to teach the spelling words?”

Uncomfortable silence ensued, so I plunged back in. “It seems to me that it’s like me handing you a harmonica on Monday and telling you you’ll have a test on your first song on Friday. But I’m not going to give you any lessons or even tell you how to figure out playing it. But, yes, you’ll have a test on Friday, so good luck to you!”

“Most of the kids don’t have a problem with learning the words,” she offered meekly.

“Good for them. My son does. And I have a problem with the school testing him on any material that they don’t bother to teach him.”

What remained unspoken in this conversation is that the school has eliminated spelling in order to concentrate on WASL prep. There is no longer any time to devote to learning the rules of spelling. They continue to cynically test kids on spelling each week in order to put a grade on a report card (so that it appears that they are teaching spelling), but the only spelling instruction my son has received this year is the instruction I’ve given him at home. AND IT PISSES ME OFF BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION! Don’t even get me started on handwriting. Some elementary schools have even eliminated recess—recess, people—because it’s not a state mandated requirement and they feel they need the time for WASL prep.

And yet my rant is only half done…

My daughter was in a tizzy when I called in from the road yesterday. “Mom! Where are you? You’ve got to come home! Now!”

           “Why?” I asked alarmed. It’s not like Mamie to get so agitated. There must be some sort of emergency.

           “The high school counselors came to school today. They gave us 8^th graders our registration packets for next year. They have a web design class that looks so cool! And they got five foreign languages. I think I want to take Japanese, but I’m not sure.”

           Okay, so this wasn’t an emergency; it was youthful excitement. Thank God! My daughter has been morose about the idea of entering high school since at least September (she’s not exactly good with change). Tonight we were supposed to go to her future high school for Incoming Freshman Night. I was thrilled that she was finally starting to warm up to the idea of attending high school.

           “I’m about an hour out, but I’ll be home in plenty of time to take you to the school tonight. And we can talk about languages. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all figured out.”

           Unfortunately, by the time I got home, most of Mamie's excitement had drained away. She had marked a couple of key pages in the booklet she’d brought home from the counselors. “Look, Mom, this page shows the number of credits in each subject that I have to take to graduate high school. But this page shows the credits that a four-year college expects you to have in high school if you plan to apply. If I satisfy all these requirements, I don’t see how I’m going to be able to take the one-semester web design course and still take both music and Japanese.”

           “Mamie, it will be okay. You don’t have to take everything your first year. You’ve got four years to fit everything in.”

           She gave me one of those patented pity-filled looks that I get whenever she thinks I’m being particularly slow. “Mom,” she explained, “Look at this chart I made. Each of these four lines represents one year of high school. I filled out all four years to fit in all the requirements. I might be able to take the web course in my junior year, but only if I don’t have to take the Washington History course. I need to ask someone about that tonight. And I may also have to choose between taking a final year of math or 4^th year Japanese my senior year—I don’t think I can do both.”

           I sat down with her course materials and her chart to look over what she had done. And damned if she wasn’t right: If she wants to take both music and foreign language throughout high school, she eliminates room to so much as dabble in any other subject area.

           I was pretty horrified. First of all, it horrifies me that she has to create a four-year chart at the end of eighth grade just to be able to register for her freshman classes without screwing up her path from the outset. Thank God I’ve got a 13-year-old who is able to see the big picture and plan accordingly. I know that I would not have had the skills and foresight for that sort of planning when I was 13. Thank God too that we’ve been talking to her about the importance of being prepared for college from a young age, and the importance of studying another language before it’s too late. Without all those dinner table conversations, she probably wouldn’t have realized how vital even this first year of high school would be.

           But I’m also horrified that school has contracted so much around standardized testing that it’s starting to look like nothing but required courses to either prep for the test or prep for college admission applications. Back in the old days when I went to high school, there was ample opportunity to take various electives; and those, of course, tended to be the classes that ignited passion in students. In fact, there was enough wiggle room that, if you got reasonable grades, you could graduate a semester early and still gain admission to a four-year college. Clearly, those days are long gone.

           To make a long story short, my daughter came home in tears last night from “Incoming Freshman Night” from all the stress. At home, we took the information that we’d learned and sat down with a sharp pencil and helped her fill out her four year chart with classes that will earn her a high school diploma and fulfill the requirements for college admission. She will be able to take music and foreign language each year, but may have to sacrifice a year of math (which, strangely, she doesn’t want to do). And, yes, she may be able to fit in a single semester of web design before it’s all through.

           But God forbid she actually develops new or different interests between now and the next four years. Once started down this road, there’s no turning back.

...to our little girl! Jazz-dog had a birthday this month (she's a Valentines baby). She's now officially one year old! Here is her official birthday portrait--she's wearing her zippy new birthday collar. You like?

Yes, the puppy stuff has been fun, but I have to admit I'm looking forward to having a staid, calm, mature dog at some point--hopefully sooner rather than later...

People have arrived at this blog on the wings of the most obscene and profane phrases imaginable. Could I count the number of Google Pervs who’ve landed here because they possess a compelling curiosity about the special love that a man can share only with his horse? No, I cannot. Or how about the crowds who have pushed through the gates in a dash to discover for themselves the best locations in the Pacific Northwest for alfresco masturbating? No, too many of those to number.  Well then, how about all those twisted fans of supermodel Kristy Pierce who regularly shuffle away, wiping tears and snot on their tattered sleeves when they discover, to their disappointment, that a blog written by a woman named Kristy who writes about Pierce County ultimately won’t provide any photographic fodder for to fuel their dark fantasies? Again, their number is legion, and I don’t have enough fingers to count that high.

           For the most part, the Google Pervs don’t bother me at all. I just chuckle and shake my head when I find their tell-tale graffiti on my web stat reports. There’s no use getting offended. As I’m sure you know, if you run a website, you are going to be visited regularly by a certain number of them. Their occasional company is just a part of doing business on the world wide innertubes.

           There was one search phase that showed up recently, however, that has been bugging me since I discovered it on my site reports. Yes, I would even say that it actually managed to offend me. That phrase? “Levon Helm’s penis.”

           Okay, sure, maybe I brought this on myself. I’m sure I have mentioned the word “penis” once or twice, probably when griping that all the spam I get lately impugns mine, both in size and performance. The fact that, as I woman, I don’t even own a penis doesn’t do much to relieve the feelings of inadequacy that these constant messages cause. That’s just how insidious the spam is. And, recently, I’ve been writing the occasional post about Levon Helm. I’ve only just recently discovered his work with The Band (again, typically—for me at least—about 100 years too late) and have made him my Personal Musical Hero for the New Millennium. I even named my new laptop “Levon” in his honor. Levon sits at our table downstairs and has become something of a household oracle. Whenever any of us comes up with one of those mealtime questions that stumps the panel, we all chant, “Let’s ask Levon!” He’s settled many an argument for us in his quiet, competent way, and we’ve grown to love him.

           So, yes, I’ve written about Levon Helm and I’ve occasionally scribbled the word “penis.” And maybe these jottings have appeared close enough to each other that search engines assume that I might actually be writing about both at the same time. But I never have, and I never would. For one thing, I’m not qualified simply by virtue of the fact that I’ve never seen the item in question, either live or on the internet. But also because, even without having seen it, I can tell you that there is surely nothing particularly interesting about it. I can guarantee you that it is not purple or pinstriped or mustachioed. I assume that it doesn’t fall at either extreme of the size scale; it’s surely not a medical oddity and, in terms of function Levon Helm’s penis (if it’s like any other penis I’ve ever met) has an agenda that includes exactly two action items. So what’s the big deal?

           Well, friends, it not just that someone was searching online for “Levon Helm’s penis,” it’s that they were searching with Google and yet not using Google Images. This leaves me to assume that they were not so much interested in seeing it as they were reading about it. Like, what? I was going to write its biography? Be its campaign manager? Verbally illustrate that it’s a virtual Cirque-du-Soleil trapeze artist compared to a universe of less acrobatic members? What? How does this make any sense?

           My advice to Google Pervs interested in researching this topic? If you want to get to know Levon Helm, go to Google Images and look for a picture of Levon playing his drums. Not his organ. And step the hell away from my website. You make me want to take a shower.

February 4, 2008

And their slogan is, "Not reality--actuality."

A distinction as fine as saying, "Not bullshit--cattle shit."

(And, yes, it's entirely possible that I spent WAY too much time watching T.V. over the Christmas break. Absolutely.)

January 22, 2008

What do Alvin Tostig and Virgil Cain have in common?

January 4, 2008

I mean, if you can see past the unfortunate realities of this report on a fatal collision, you'll see that it really does have certain charms...

P.S. - Sorry I've been mostly absent, but I'm taking some time to recharge the batteries. I may be in and out for awhile...