Bombing in Norway

Earlier today (Friday, July 22) a bomb went off in a government building in Oslo and two hours later, shooting at an annual youth event. So far, 17 people have died. I am not the one to give in-depth analysis, but Al Jazeera is regularly updating their Oslo blog. Check it out for new information.

We're Done Already?

I have recently begun volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, specifically the family selection aspect of the organization. Tonight I went to a meeting of the Family Selection Committee, my first, and was prepared to stay until 10pm if need be (the meeting started at 6), but really wanted to be out by 8. I was listening, absorbing, doing my best to understand how the committee works, when at 6:42pm one of the committee members announced the meeting was finished. What the f*ck?, I thought. Who the hell ends a meeting within the hour? Then I remembered the last meeting I was in was for Edirisa Smiles, where four hours was a short meeting. The point being that I love Austin Habitat for Humanity already.

The Right Questions for Gov. Perry

I read this article in the Austin American Statesman today: "Questions need answering before Perry runs for real". How true, I thought to myself. Potential supporters need to ask how Perry will manage the Federal budget when he is unable to properly manage Texas. Or how can he claim to support better education efforts while firing hundreds of teachers and spending public funds on a Formula One track?

That is where my mind went, before reading the article: pertinent questions concerning policy. However, the point Mr. Ken Herman, the author, is making is this: is Perry ready to have his personal life come under complete public scrutiny? Almost immediately after George W. was inaugurated the papers became running articles on Laura Bush's choice of shoes and reported that peanut butter sandwiches were being served in the White House. Gasp! Governor Perry, this (apparently) is the only question you need to ask yourself: "Do you ever want to be able to fish alone again?"

Aren't these questions better discussed between Perry and his family, rather than the subject of a newspaper article? Mr. Herman, do you ever want to do any political reporting? Seems to me your answer is simple: No.

A Historian's Dilemma

In my apartment I have a small cabinet filled with china dinner service for eight, including two serving platters, tea cups and saucers, and random little crescent-shaped bread plates, not to mention the standard plates, bowls and what-have-you. The china is safely packed away in zipper cloth containers, each piece of china separated by a thin strip of foam and, in the case of the bowls and plates, a small piece of cardboard, as well. Sitting on the floor next to the cabinet are two boxes which contain crystal glasses, also for eight, including large wine goblets, smaller goblets and dainty sherry glasses. As with the china, each glass is carefully packed away, wrapped in foam covers and separated from one another by cardboard partitions. They would also be in a cabinet but I do not have a piece of furniture that can safely hide the china and the crystal, so the crystal remains in boxes on the floor. Next to the crystal boxes, going in a line along the wall, is a hutch which, in addition to my cookbooks, mixing bowls and Dutch ovens, displays a large, somewhat tarnished silver tea service: tall tea pot, sugar bowl with lid and milk pitcher, all perfectly positioned on a silver tray. On top of the hutch is a silver cake stand, also slightly tarnished but, perhaps due to less filigree in the pattern, shining more brightly than the tea service below. If you open the hutch doors you will find a large, heavy, crystal punch bowl with eight glasses and a ladle, casually sitting next to some muffin tins.

These are all items that once belonged to my parents, items specifically given to me for various reasons including simple circumstance (both my sisters already had china and crystal, with no need for second sets), physical association (I would polish the tea set and cake stand for my mother, so out of three children I was the only one with known attachment to the pieces), and personal claim (I wanted the punch bowl because I was determined to use it, rather than leave it stored in a box as it had existed for the past thirty years.) There are other items in my apartment, as well, odds and ends that my sisters could not stand to give away when they packed up the house. In the same cabinet which houses the china I also have two decorative plates commemorating Western Maryland College, where my (our) great-grandmother attended (and graduated.) Did I attend Western Maryland? No. But because I graduated from college, unlike my sisters, and the great-grandmother in question is my namesake, it was determined that the plates would be best served in my hands. I think it was staring at those plates, trying to decide what to do with them, that started my dilemma.

I was not around when my sisters packed up the house. When my (our) parents died I ran away, first all over the country, then overseas where I stayed for almost two years. I was grateful for the work my sisters did and gladly accepted the choices they made. In truth, I wanted the china and the crystal and the tea set - I wanted any and every physical connection to my parents that I could have, things I could touch and smell and hold in my hands while remembering holidays spent 'round the dining room table, crystal glasses in use only because my sisters and I begged our mom to use them, or a quiet, sunny Sunday afternoon, talking to my mom and dad as I polished the silver for them. Simple memories that do not require aides, yet at the time I needed those physical objects to stand as a shrine to my parents. That was then. Now, I am not so sure I want my dining room to be a memorial and my inheritance seems more of a hindrance. After all, when I become nostalgic about Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners it is not the plates I am remembering; in my memory, and in reality, the tea set was (is) just a useless dust-collector; despite an initial determination to put the punch bowl to good use, it still sits in the dark, untouched and unused. Sometimes I take one of the crystal glasses from its respective box and hold it, imagining how it would feel to fling it at the wall and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces. It is only a glass; my parents died years ago.

Preservation. Remembrance. I feel the weight of these words, of the historian's duty to maintain memory, each time I walk past my relics. How long must I carry these objects with me? Until I have a house of my own and will use the china and crystal at holidays dinners I host, serving coffee and cake form the silver sets? I am no longer sure that it the lot I want in life or that I care about serving Thanksgiving dinner on matching china - or on china, at all. It is a tradition that now means nothing to me, yet just the thought of allowing a tradition die fills me with more guilt than abandoning these things my sisters entrusted me with. Nevertheless, I must admit to myself that I am not a museum, I have no duty to be a museum, and holding on to their plates will not bring my parents back. Yet how can I claim to be a historian when I do not want to hold on to the past? And really, how would I explain myself to my sisters? Regret and guilt versus preservation and memory. I do not know which, in the end, will win out.

A Few Shots of Summer

Of what we do in Austin, such as paddleboarding on Lake Austin - albeit with no actual paddleboarding shots.

 

And This Is How I Spoil My Cat, Part II

An ever-full water cup on my nightstand is not enough for Umberto Garcia Juanita Lupita Gonzalez III, perhaps because the cup I have given him is small - a child's cup, really. The spoiled bastard prefers the large tumblers I use and so stares at me as I drink from mine, whether I am standing in the kitchen, sitting at the table or resting in bed (especially when I am resting in bed.) I feel his covetous stare as I lift my plastic tumbler to my lips, his pitiful cup disdainfully ignored. I try to temper his spoiled behavior: I tap on his cup, forcing his attention to the fresh water brimming at the rim; I pour a little of my water into his cup, to remind him we are drinking the exact same thing; I drain my tumbler so he will not be able to knock it over when he pushes his head in, looking for a drink. Unfortunately, only the latter tactic works, because inevitably Umberto sticks his head into my (now empty) cup desperately trying to lap up even one drop of water, knocking the the cup on it's side when he removes his head in vain. Only then will he turn to his own cup and drink his fill.

I have ruined my cat. True, I may not help matters much when he goes to get a drink from my water bottle and I pour some water into the cap for him to have a sip. Or when Umberto jumps up to the sink (kitchen or bathroom, makes no difference) either Seth or I will turn on the water for him to drink. Or giving him a damn water cup in the first place. At least he only eats cat food, otherwise he would probably demand roast lamb every day. And I am the idiot who would make it for him.

And This Is How I Spoil My Cat, Part I

Umberto was once a typical cat who drank from a water bowl/dish like other four-legged animals kept as pets. He never turned his nose up at a plastic dish, even if some food had dropped in or some other foreign object was floating along the surface; he drank his water and went on his way. When Umberto and I first arrived in the States in February, however, I didn't have a regular, plastic water dish for him so I used a small ceramic bowl form my sister's kitchen (we were in her house). This was the beginning: I (by this I mean, my sister) bought him a food dish which was actually a food/water dish combo, but Umberto refused to drink water from the "water side" of the dish; he preferred the ceramic bowl. Whatever makes him happy, I thought.

Then, after moving to Austin and moving in my sisters-in-law, Umberto did something I found irresistibly cute: he drank water from a cup. How could I not encourage it? All right, I did not quite encourage him but rather found him constantly sticking his head into a cup so I would just fill up a glass and give it to him. It followed that he completely gave up on the plastic water dish next to his food. Instead, he had a tumbler which I kept full of water right there on floor, next to his food. I tried to correct my mistake and, in our new apartment, only provided him water in his water dish. He drank from the dish for a day, until he discovered how easy it was to jump onto the kitchen counter or table or anywhere and stick his head in my or Seth's water glass. The damage was done and his water cup returned, only this time placed on my nightstand, free from having any stray bits of food unexpectedly dropping in. It seemed to make Umberto happy enough.