The wrong tattoo

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For almost 30 years, I had this tattoo on my back. It's on my right shoulder blade. It was a dark ship (faded to blue) under full sail crashing through a blue wave. If I haven't shown you, it's probably because for 25 years I believed it was the wrong tattoo.

In college, my favorite professor's favorite book was Moby Dick. It became my favorite book. A Missouri kid who had never left the Midwest, I was caught up in the adventure of it, the years' long voyage, the isolation of the crew, the madness of their captain. Enough themes are lashed and rigged to its deck to sustain most readers--certainly me--around the world.

But I was also drawn to Melville's love and awe of whales. When John Gilgun taught the book, he wanted us to immerse ourselves in whales and whaling. We listened to recordings of whale song, we looked at photos of scrimshaw, one Spring day, he had the class line up on the quad in a line that stretched the length of an adult sperm whale.

In the first few years after John recruited me to the book, I read that novel every year. Sometimes I came back to read favorite chapters in between full readings. It had something new each time and it was a joy to stumble across favorite lines or favorite scenes. The first time they lower boats to chase whales is as exciting as anything I have ever read.

I graduated from college in the summer that we found out that Tabitha was pregnant and that I had been accepted to grad school...in the summer that we moved to California so we could have health insurance to cover the delivery, then back to Ohio so I could start at Bowling Green...in the summer that we asked my brother, Brian, and our friend Wendy to come along on the roadtrip to California.

It was the same summer they drowned together...just a week after they got back from our roadtrip.

I loved my brother deeply. He admired me in the way that only a little brother can--no one will ever feel that way about me again. But, in the days leading up to his death, we were feuding. He and Wendy were having an affair. She was married to another close friend and I was furious with both of them. I had never heard of the Internet. He didn't have a phone. So I poured out my anger and accusations in letters to him.

I remember finding those letters on his coffee table when I flew back to Missouri to claim the body.

We had never fought before. We squabbled and bickered over minor things, but I told him in those letters that I was ashamed of him. Those were the last things I ever said to him.

So my grief, tangled in remorse, sunk to rage. When I turned to Moby Dick that fall, I read it in a very different way. Ahab was a hero. Ahab had the right idea. God was an asshole--unfit to run a Dairy Queen, much less creation. I understood Ahab's wound, his fury, and his craving for vengeance.

Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me. Look ye, Starbuck, all visible objects are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning thing puts forth the molding of their features. The white whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. 'Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since time began; the thing that maws and mutilates our race, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a lung.

So I decided to get a tattoo of the Pequod--the white ship in which Ahab and his doomed crew chased the white whale. There was vanity mixed into my grief, so I thought about where the tattoo would look most striking and (for some reason that made sense at the time) I decided to get it on my right shoulder blade.

The tattoo artist was young. He might have been high. Or maybe I just didn't stress enough that I wanted a white ship. I didn't get it. When I finally stood up and looked in the mirror, there was a brown three-masted sailing ship. Not the Pequod. Not even a particularly good ship.

That just added to the rage.

As the years passed, I would sometimes mention the tattoo to friends. I even showed it to a few people. But as soon as they asked for the story, I knew that anyone who had read the book would know that this was the wrong tattoo.

After a few years, I just stopped mentioning it at all.

Three years ago, I was teaching a class on oral storytelling in our Ascent program. It's a program designed to give new college students who might otherwise struggle with the transition to college, a head start. One goal is to help them form community. So I came up with a story prompt called "So I have this tattoo" that was supposed to get them to share a meaningful event or experience and to use descriptive language to paint a picture.

The night before I was to introduce the prompt, I started thinking about what I would say about my tattoo. All the familiar recriminations came to mind. I struggled to articulate how badly I had botched this. In part, because I had the memory of the anger, but not the actual taste of anger in my mouth.

I thought about the old rage and realized I wasn't on Team Ahab any more. And then I remembered the Rachel. Towards the end of the book (chapter 941, I think). Another ship approaches the Pequod as they are hunting Moby Dick. Ahab shouts to the other captain, asking if they have seen the white whale. "Yes!" says the other captain. "He was headed that way yesterday! But look, my sons were in another whale boat and they fastened to a whale that pulled them in the other direction. We've been searching but haven't seen them. If our two ships can execute a search grid..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," says Ahab. "About the white whale, which way was it headed?"

And so Ahab told the other captain to go fly a kite and went off after Moby Dick.

And found him.

And was killed by him.

And Ahab's ship and all its crew were also destroyed by him.

Except the narrator, Ishmael, who floated out of the wreck on a coffin, all alone at sea.

On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan."

It had been 25 years since I had gotten that ship tattooed on my back and it was only in the act of explaining it to these kids that I realized it wasn't the wrong ship. It wasn't the Pequod. Whether it was fair or not, she drowned.

My rage has dried up.

My tattoo was of the Rachel. She is crewed by all of the people in all of these years who--desperately looking out across the vast expanse of their own pain--nevertheless noticed me. And saved me.

Thank you, shipmates. Thank you.

And the story has an epilogue. After more than a year (due to the pandemic), today I got the last sting of the new tattoo. It's much larger. It has Ishmael, floating on that coffin, about to be rescued by the Rachel. We wrapped it up the day after I learned that John Gilgun, who ignited my love of Moby Dick has died. He and I were great friends in the years after Brian and Wendy's death. I know he was one of those in the bow, searching.

Ishmael about to be picked up by the Rachel.
I asked the artist to allow the sails of the old tattoo to show through.

Remarks - 2018 Award for Distinguished Service

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Several people have asked to read the remarks I wrote in regard to the service award. Here they are (minus some things I nervously ad-libbed as I was getting started and plus things I edited out as I read it at the ceremony).

I want to begin by giving personal thanks to a few people.

First, my closest friends and mentors: Liz and Cathie and Ann, and Robin and Phil and Nick, and Annette and Pat and Gary. They are true stewards of the University, fiercely devoted to this place, to our mission. I’ve leaned on them and learned from them more than any others over the years. And my departments --I’ve been fortunate to belong to the two best departments anyone could hope for-- I’m grateful to be surrounded by friends like Mary Beth, and Paul, and Karolyn, and Evelyn, and Metty, and Eun-Ho, and (count em) TWO Joes and TWO Megs!

And I want to thank my family. My brilliant, beautiful daughters, Brianna and Maya, are out conquering the world and couldn’t be here today, but my Dad is here, and that makes me very proud. I regret that saying YES to this committee or that task force usually meant saying NO to them.

And finally, my wife.    Tabitha directs social work at Glencliff home out in Warren. If you don’t know it, it’s a grand old residential facility on the shoulder of Mt. Moosilauke dedicated to New Hampshire's developmentally disabled and mentally ill. The world often refuses to look at those folks. For some of them, this is the first time in their whole lives that they have lived in a place that is safe, and healthy, and dignified. She also handles admissions, so one night not long ago, Tab was telling me about a person she had visited in some emergency room here in NH earlier that day. This person’s life and health were in ruins. Her behaviors and her addictions had brought so much suffering and pain to her children and her family that everyone around her was angry and hurt and exasperated. And Tabitha was sitting at our table that night crying...because where someone like you or I might see the awful destruction around this person, Tab saw a person surrounded by destruction. And she went in to help. On my best days, I like to pretend I make PSU a slightly better place. On her best days, my wife makes us a better species. Thank you Tab.  

It feels a little embarrassing to be singled out for praise when so many at Plymouth State have given so much this year. Here it is, May 2, and I doubt one of you has left any gas in the tank. There is no harder working faculty or staff in New Hampshire...maybe in higher education. You are remarkable. Too often our sacrifices of time and effort seem invisible -- unappreciated, uncounted, ineffectual, and inconsequential to the corner offices of the world. But that’s why now, more than ever, we need to thank each other. I’m grateful for this award, but we shouldn’t wait for the end of the year to pick out a handful of people for praise. We should celebrate each others’ work loudly and often.

Where confusion and fear cause us to shelter in place, prepare for the worst, protect whatever we can get our arms around--gratitude and recognition inspire us to lean in. So I hope you know your colleagues noticed what you accomplished this year. We saw the diligence put into revising the academic integrity policy. We saw the inspiration and the hard work that produced so many cluster projects. Your colleagues know that you volunteered your time and energy to serve on the INCO Task Force, or as a First Year Seminar Fellow, or on the Provost search committee or on the dozens of departmental search committees and P&T committees that we shoehorned into our schedules. Your colleagues know you poured your attention into MAPS and The Clock and Pride and all of the important student organizations we nurture. Your colleagues know that faculty and staff toiled away together creating cluster designs, had to throw out those designs each time the rules changed, then went right back to toiling away at them. We saw the hours and hours the Curriculum Committee put into reading hundreds of proposals this year. And the Curriculum Committee saw the attention that so many good faculty put into writing hundreds of proposals this year. We’re grateful to the people who spent so much of their time on the TLT. We all know our terrific Faculty Speaker and the Steering Committee lead us through tough times. You don't hear it enough, but your work mattered and we should thank each other for it.

And my thanks to the Negotiating Team for the AAUP--I’ve been part of some heavy lifts at Plymouth State, but I’ve never been part of a team so diligent, so passionate, or so close as you. I’m as proud to be part of what Ann, and Liz, and Alice, and Justin, and Elliott have accomplished, and what they stand for, as I am of anything in my life. To be clear, the administration’s negotiating team is also comprised of good and decent people. When the tension gets high, it helps to know that we are negotiating with folks like Julie Bernier and Gail Mears, people who’ve dedicated their entire careers to this institution. We’re building on that shared foundation. We’ve worked hard to negotiate a contract that insists on improving transparency and fairness, that pushes the administration to plan ahead, and acknowledges that the expertise, experience, and values of the faculty matter to the future of the institution.

I wish I could end on that hopeful note. This has always been such a happy occasion. But the truth is, morale has never been lower. We live in an age which celebrates organizations that disrupt their industries, their economies, their societies. Over and over the brightest of these organizations reject mechanical corporate thinking in favor of a culture that values people -- because that’s the only culture where collaboration and innovation and learning flourish. I think a lot of people at Plymouth State don't feel valued. We’re exhausted. We’ve lost some mission-critical people this year. And we’ve alienated or burned out many others. We have to do better.

Summer is a time when many of us have a chance to recharge but also, to reset. We’re pinning our hopes on that reset. We’re hoping a new administrative structure, a new contract, an emerging cluster structure, and the welcome addition of a provost will make this an easier place to do our work. I trust that next year will be marked by more careful, more sensitive communications that don’t confuse or needlessly frighten people; that administrators will take more interest in our work, our processes, and our policies in order to make informed decisions on matters that have profound consequences for faculty, staff, and students. We have so much more to do if we are going to transform higher education, and we’re the right people to do it. I’m grateful for the faculty and staff’s successes this year, and I’m doubly grateful that I get to face next year’s challenges with you.

Thank you for this recognition, and thank you, colleagues, for everything that you have done this year.

Bells

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I know many are concerned about how I'm doing. For someone so used to blabbing to the world, it's strange that I feel nearly choked when I try to imagine a post on FB.

My mom died yesterday at 1:39 in the afternoon (her time). Almost everyone in her family and Dad's had been to see her in the previous 48 hours. Many were just outside the door. She was surrounded in the room by my brother and sister and my dad. They were holding her hands. I had spoken to her a couple of hours before, telling her I loved her, that she had raised us to be strong and to be strong for each other, that she could go because we were going to be OK. June asked me to tell her about Italy, so I rambled on for awhile about the lemon trees and the orange trees and the olives and the sea. Her breathing then was terrible to hear. Her body was too weak cough, liquid was filling her lungs. She didn't move. When June messaged me to call her later in the evening (I am seven hours ahead), I knew what I would hear.

I'm OK. I slept more deeply and long last night than I have since I left home. Grief doesn't wake me up ten times a night the way fear and anxiety did. I woke up this morning at 9 am to my brother Mark texting me (Viber) that he was finally going to try to sleep (2am CST). At our request, the hospice folks had come and cleared away the bed and the equipment and so the family had kept busy last night putting the house back together. Without her.

Here, I got up, dressed and cooked an egg and toast and ate standing at the window looking at the stone pines. I walked around the courtyard of the apartment complex and threw fallen oranges into the gorge behind. I wanted the tears to come. They didn't.

View from one terrace of the courtyard and Stone Pines (also called Umbrella Pines).

View from one terrace of the courtyard and Stone Pines (also called Umbrella Pines).

I walked down Via Degli Aranci, where I live, East about 3/4 mile to Corso Italia and had an espresso. I stopped in the Deco to buy chicken and pasta for dinner and more power converters (both of mine blew yesterday). In Piazza Tasso, packed with families and old couples strolling around in their Sunday clothes, drinking cappucino at sidewalk tables, the bells of the town went wild for awhile. It was 11 am and every bell in every church (that means hundreds of bells) began to ring violently. I thought maybe carthagenians were swarming the beach. No one else seemed to notice. They rang for five or ten minutes. For an instant, they cut through the numbness and I felt the grief squeezing me, but I walked on and through it.

Even though it was only 11, I thought I might have a drink. One pub in particular, The English Inn, has traditionally catered to american students at Sant'Anna and their faculty. I was introduced to Fabio, the legendary owner, on my first night here. But I hadn't gone in yet on my own. First, because I wanted to be home in the evenings to keep in touch with Tab and my family over wifi. Second, because I feel strange drinking with my students and they are there every night. I wanted a bourbon. I've tried to eat and drink like an italian so far, but I wanted a bourbon or nothing. This early in the day, though, Fabio wasn't there and the woman on duty in the front of the house was not interested in me--families were eating and the dining room was hopping. I sat at the bar (truly, very like an English pub) by myself for a few minutes, then took my shopping bag and went out again.

Next door is a leather goods store where I have been admiring a leather bag since my first night here. I admired it again and, as usual, when I saw the shopkeeper coming to engage, I fled. On Corso Italia, I was thinking of how much easier it would be to keep my phrasebook and maps and sunglasses, etc., in such a bag. Only american men are afraid to carry such bags. We are still afraid of the schoolyard bullies who might call us sissies.

Then I started thinking about my mom's purses. Valises, really. My mom could never have owned one of those tiny sleek black purses stylish women wear. She might have considered putting twelve into the shopping bag she preferred. She could never find anything in her purse without first dumping it out. To read a menu at a restaurant, she would first fill the booth with pieces of folded paper, bottles of lotion, birthday cards, bags of food (and bits of food wrapped in napkins), used kleenex, kleenex packets, gum, cigarette lighters, paperback novels, spiral notebooks, oranges, pens, water bottles, and 40 other unidentifiable things before she could find her reading glasses and read the menu. And then order the same thing she always ordered. It always amused and embarrassed me that her key ring had an enormous stuffed yellow smiley face on it the size of a large hamburger bun. I first thought it was so she could see the keys in those chaotic bags. Now I think the smiley face acted as a sort of buoy--keeping the keys floating near the surface.

Now the tears were coming. I stepped into a narrow alley with no people (even narrow alleys are likely to be crowded in Sorrento) and turned my back to the street. I leaned against the wall and let it out just a little. If mom had been here, she would have 150 kleenex to offer me and I could have opened it up. But she's not, so I wept a little and then took a deep breath.

Me being alone and far away when she died is not what I feared. My friends and family support me even from the other side of the planet. Me not being one of the people holding her hand is what I could not bear. Probably, I'm lucky I was spared the awful sound and sight of her body's struggle. They will hear that sound in their dreams. But I wanted to share her life--every last bit of it--feel it in my hand. I wanted her to feel me with her, not hear my voice on the phone.

By now, I really needed some kleenex. I went back to Corso Italia and turned and climbed Via Sersale through the ancient gate of the city and back to my apartment. But first, I went back and bought the goddamned bag.

Voted-out, not fouled-out

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union pic

Clock photo by Nina Weinstein

Although last week's vote was devastating for many of us, few can deny that the faculty spoke decisively in an election that had a higher turnout (95%) than any faculty election in recent memory. It may seem like cold comfort to union supporters, but I really do believe that we can be proud of the positive campaign we waged--in forums and on the listserv, we refused to make accusations, ascribe hidden motives, or question the character/abilities of our opponents. Instead, we tried to direct the conversation towards what a union could accomplish for faculty and for PSU, and to respond to questions/accusations (even when the answer was ignored and the question repeated many times).

In the last weeks of the campaign, the organizing committee assumed the attacks and accusations ("secret agendas," "retaliation" and the constant refrain that excluding contract faculty from the bargaining was somehow "dirty politics") of the most vocal anti-unionists would only resonate with those of like-mind and would either fall flat with undecided faculty or possibly even nudge a few in our direction (and, anecdotally, we did hear from three or four who were persuaded to vote YES in reaction to those tactics). In fact, we assumed that even responding to some of the most outlandish claims would make us seem as vehement (and thus irrational) as those most vocal opponents. However, if we lost as many supporters in the final weeks as it appears, we may have been wrong on both counts.

From the beginning, we certainly knew we would lose if we failed to convince our colleagues that a faculty union was right for PSU. Had the debate centered more on the merits, necessity and efficacy of unions, I suspect the loss would sit easier on many of us--we made our best case, they made their best case, faculty weighed both and decided. But that is where the takeaways from the election are unclear -- at least for me:
  • if we believe that our colleagues voted against a union in spite of the differences in tone and focus, then perhaps we need to rethink our position.
  • if, as seems to be the case, their tactics did persuade faculty who had otherwise been open to considering a union... well, how are we to react to that?
Forming a faculty union will not happen--at least not in the near-term. Rehashing what we might have done differently is useful, to a point, but only if we have the distance and perspective to question every assumption we made (and the assumptions we may be making in hindsight). That doesn't mean we can't work to make positive change, though. If we are up to it, perhaps our real challenge is finding a way to raise the level of discourse among faculty.

I had a long (and restorative) conversation with a friend who teaches at Eastern Kentucky last night. He pointed out that such tactics (even obviously fallacious tactics), and susceptibility to those tactics, are not only not rare in university discourse, but they are almost as much the norm here are as they are in the wider society.

The union discussion became mostly ugly. While I didn't exactly lose friends over it, I have less regard for a few than I once did. But attacking (or making insinuations about) the character of opponents isn't new behavior for PSU and we all share some of the blame. Every few years the faculty is called on to make some seemingly important decision: gen ed, four-credits, attendance policy, unionization.... Each time, in the midst of the more intelligent conversation, one faculty member or another rises to argue that they support position-X because they are compassionate towards students (and thus, those who hold any other position are NOT compassionate), or they oppose position-Y "because I, personally, enjoy teaching," (and thus, those who hold any other position do NOT enjoy teaching). When we simply move on to the next speaker and allow such manipulations to pass without remark we are complicit in what amounts to a discourse foul. When enough of those fouls pile up, we lose the ability to have real debate, much less dialectic (a concept that was, ironically, much invoked early in the union discussion, but mentioned more rarely when anti-union folks developed an offensive strategy).

If just one of us chooses to confront colleagues when red cardthey commit such fouls, they will almost certainly be dismissed as a sort of crank. But if enough of us make it a point to call out fallacies when we see them...well, we'll probably still be ignored by many, but we may actually create a PSU culture that encourages more colleagues to argue the merit of ideas...and to question those who rely on emotional manipulation.

And in the end, maybe THAT's one way to improve faculty engagement in governance -- more people may be more willing to do more work on more ideas if they are less likely to have their character attacked in the process.

Mysterious Sound in my neighborhood...

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At about 1 am, I was working out in the screen porch when I heard a strange noise coming from the woods. At first, thought it was odd, but I assumed it would go away. It didn't. Eventually I grabbed one of the school's H4N digital recorders and when out in the front yard to record it. I took Irie.

I recorded about 12 minutes total. I removed the first few minutes of me fumbling with doors and the drone of the window fan in our bedroom above. I also cut out twenty seconds between the last cry and Irie beginning to woof. Then I cut out another full minute from the last sound Irie makes to me telling her to come in. I ran a noise reducer over the whole things to cut out my breathing and the sound of me peeing my pants.

Baby bear calling it's mother? Heron-monkey-from-Hell? Bigfoot? Forest spirit? Drunken crow?

bear cub?

$@*&%@#! Spring Break Miracle

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I thought I would put my Journalism midterm on Blackboard (our "online classroom environment")  so students could cut and paste from the fact lists in the questions into their lead rewrites. The web portal, MyPlymouth, crashed and we spent 15 minutes trying to get all but one student logged in. Finally, I had to throw in the towel and make a take-home exam.

What are the lessons I can take from this?
A. Since you can't trust technology you should make a backup exam - in other words, do twice the work ahead of time or do the twice the work after the fact.

B. It's not ITS's fault the servers crashed. Even though the classroom has 20 computers, the system was never designed to allow more than four people to logon at the same time. I should have the other students wait in their seats until the first four are done.

C. One person's Spring Break miracle is another person's March 30 nightmare or -- since the take home exam will be an essay exam--the WHOLE CLASS'S March 30 nightmare.

D. Why bother to kick the ball, Charlie Brown?

Update: Things Are Looking Up

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Sorry I haven't updated in more than a week. It's been so overwhelming that every time I sat down to sum up, I felt like I had more questions than answers. Things are looking up, for the most part, so here's the news:

The House

The house is pretty much gutted now. On the second floor, they removed the wood floor in the hallway; the sheetrock in the hallway, the girls' bathroom, and the exercise room; they are pulling up the carpet in the girls' rooms, the exercise room, and Tab's office; they are taking out the tile floor in the girls' bathroom. Essentially, every room up there except the master suite has been reduced to bare studs and subfloor. On the first floor, they pulled up all of the oak floors in the dining room, living room, and hallway; they're pulling up the floor tile in the kitchen and guest bath; they removed the sheetrock and ceilings in the dining room, living room, guest bath and part of the kitchen, they pulled up the carpet in my office. They will be replacing the treads on the staircase. Additionally, all of the built in bookshelves, the murphy bed, etc. from all rooms except the master suite and the family room have been removed to be refinished--that goes for many of the kitchen cabinets, too. They're also replacing the kitchen countertop and the vanity in the girls' bathroom.Eventually, they will have to refinish the oak floors in the family room, too. All of our belongings (except clothing and a few odds and ends we stored in the master closet) are packed away in storage or being refinished at the furniture medic or tested at the electronics restoration place.

When all is said and done, in three months, we'll have new carpets and oak floors in most of the house. They will paint every wall in the house. Plus, we'll have new tile floors in two bathrooms and in the kitchen and a new countertop in the kitchen.

We'll also have a new furnace--though that cost is on us since it was just a coincidence that the disaster happened to reveal that our furnace was on it's last legs.

Much of the wiring that was not damaged by the water will have to be replaced since the demolition revealed that it had been chewed in several places by mice. That cost is on us, too.

We chose to go with State Farm's preferred contractor for the rebuild. They're not local 🙁 but they have an excellent reputation and they guarantee their work (and that of all their subcontractors) for FIVE years! We should be ironing out details very soon on particulars like pain colors, tile choices, etc. The reconstruction is supposed to take two to three months. We fully expect it to take a little longer.

Our Living Situation

State Farm has been taking good care of us. We've been living at the Common Man Inn for a week now and will remain here until Friday. It's a pretty posh hotel for these parts and we have been pretty spoiled for the last week. At the same time, even with one room for us and one for the kids, it gets pretty old living in a hotel. Tonight we met with a local guy who owns a FABULOUS house up on Texas Hill Road. He agreed to rent the house to us for three months (and more if we need it). It's a gorgeous place--a giant log home with views of Plymouth Mountain on one side and a view clear up to the notch on another. We move in Friday. What's more, the place is fully furnished (even pots and pans and dishes), so we don't have to go down to Manchester to dig our stuff out of storage. We can't wait to get there and cook for ourselves for a change.

We're all doing fine. Maya has had some rough days (she feels very much adrift), and Tab and I worry about how much this will cost in the end, but by and large we're all just rolling with it. It could have been worse: we could have been uninsured, or insured by a lousy company. As it happens, we're feeling very well cared-for.

Many thanks to all who have written or commented or called...I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to most of you. The day to day details have been pretty daunting up this point. Our friends have really gone out of their way to support us--inviting us over for home-cooked meals, to offering rides for the kids, temporarily adopting the cat, and my friend Phil, in particular has spent hours serving as technical advisor, ambassador from the world of contractors, and part-time project manager. I owe that guy a beer... I owe a LOT of you a beer.

This summer, we'll have a big BBQ at our new house and we'll try to dish out some payback. You'll have to take your shoes off, though...new floors don't you know.

And your banjo too

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And my banjo, autographed by Del McCoury, did not escape either. This photo doesn't show it too well, but the steam warped the head of the banjo pot (the "skin") right away. In a few days, the neck and head will probably warp too.

Bye bye banjo

Bye bye banjo

The House on Soggy Lane

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Just as finals were winding down (and grading was reaching the fever pitch) the heating pipes on part of the second floor froze up. It took a team of plumbers four days to get the heat back on (and they informed us along the way that our wonderful TARM dual-fuel furnace--it's got a HEMI--was a piece of junk on it's last legs). The final bill came to several thousand, but no worries--we were fully insured (minus a $1000 deductible) and anyway it could have been worse. At least the pipes hadn't burst and flooded the house, collapsing ceilings, ruining walls and our hardwood floors, and generally damaging or destroying our furniture and belongings. At least that hadn't happened.

And then it did.

We got back from our Christmas trip to Illinois on the 31st of December. On New Year's Day, we opened our gifts to each other at home, then packed the car to drive north to visit Tab's folks in Littleton. Since the weather was turning nasty, we planned to spend the night rather than drive back down through Franconia Notch (a treacherous pass in the winter time).

When we got home at noon on the 2nd, I opened the door to a wall of hot steam and the sound of cascading water. I cursed, Tab began to cry, and Maya went into a full-fledged panic attack. Steam had condensed on every surface, every possession on the first floor. Our kitchen floor was a puddle of hot water. The dining room was destroyed. And so on.

The dining room/sauna

The dining room/sauna

The kitchen ceilings in the steam

The kitchen ceilings in the steam

Within 15 seconds, I had the camera and was taking pictures while Tab contacted our team of plumbers and our insurance agent, however the steam was so bad that the camera fogged up. This was typical of the first pictures I took.

When the steam had cleared (some 30 or so minutes later), this is what it looked like (see below).

flood 016

flood 014

flood 050

The family room with all of the furniture we could salvage crammed into it and one of Service Master's industrial dehumidifiers in the background

The family room with all of the furniture we could salvage crammed into it and one of Service Master's industrial dehumidifiers in the background

We have wonderful friends, though. Within 20 minutes, Cathie, Liz, Jeanette, and Phil were there to help us move furniture and china and other belongings from the wettest parts of the house to the driest parts. Later that night, Robin, Phil, Ruby, and Cathie came back with pizzas and made us eat and offered to take Maya home for a sleepover (she happily accepted--Brianna had long since fled to her best friend Devon's house). Also, I should say that our plumbing team was there within minutes of our call and they did a great job of stopping the leak, fixing the broken pipes, and even tearing up some of the saturated carpets and throwing them out of the second story windows.

Our insurance company had us call ServPro to handle the cleanup and recovery. They were rude. They didn't return phone calls. We called State Farm again and asked for someone else. They suggested Service Master. They are saints. They dispatched a team IMMEDIATELY. Paul and Junior showed up and went to work right away--the first thing they did was make sure that we knew we were in good hands--that they were going to clean, remove, strip, assess, pack...everything but cook for us. They were remarkable. They were able to get the two inches of water off of the basement floor and remove the saturated insulation from the basement and dining room ceilings even before they left that night. They were back "with reinforcements" this morning to continue the drying out and to begin the thorough assessment.

And us? We're in a hotel -- one room for Tab and I (and Irie), one for the girls. We've got what clothes we could gather, and books, and DVD players and etc. We're OK.

We're covered. We'll be out of the house for a few months while the place is first stripped to the studs, then rewalled, refloored, re-etc. But for now we're dry and safe.

New Facebook Test Application

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I couldn't actually post this ON Facebook because someone might have thought it was aimed at them, specifically.

I'm devising a new FB test application: answer ten questions and it will tell you whether you are narcissistic, vain, self-absorbed, egotistical, conceited, self-important, self-loving, or merely self-admiring.

Question 1:
`Ssup good looking?