The Darwins have just arrived home in triumph from the library book sale, bearing treasures. We're suckers for a used-book sale, and sure enough, we tore ourselves away with 26 books for ourselves, plus a gift for a friend.
Behold, our loot:
Book of Greek Myths, by Ingri and Edgar Parin D'Aulaire
Illustrated Treasury of Children's Literature, edited by Margaret Martignoni
The Story of Babar, and
Babar and Father Christmas, both by Jean de Brunhoff
Babar the King and Grimm's Fairy Tales (a two-sided book)
The Emperor's Nightingale, by Hans Christian Anderson
The Story of Holly and Ivy, by Rumer Godden
Under the Window, by Kate Greenaway
Chanticleer and the Fox (from the Canterbury Tales), adapted and illustrated by Barbara Cooney
Citizen of the Galaxy, and
Red Planet, by Robert Heinlein (both vintage)
Caddie Woodlawn, by Carol Ryrie Brink
Katie John, by Mary Calhoun
Caesar, by Patrick O'Brian (yes, that Patrick O'Brian)
Adventures of Raggedy Ann, by Johnny Gruelle
Kate Crackernuts, by K.M. Briggs
The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle and Other Tales, by Hugh Lofting
Seven Volumes of the 16-volume series A History of Philosophy, by Fredrick Copleston, S.J.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Jack's funeral, and a thank you
Barb writes this account of Jack's funeral:
Friday morning we woke up to dreary, rainy weather. A grim day for our Jack. It was amazing, however, that it would stop raining whenever the men were carrying Jack's casket in or out of a building. My mother always says that there's an old saying that goes: "Happy the soul the rain falls on". If that's the case, then our Jack must be gloriously happy indeed.
The funeral Mass was crowded, approximately 1000 people there. Some people told us later that they couldn't find a place to park and figured that if there were that many cars, the church must be filled, so they sadly left. The Mass was beautiful, Father gave an awesome homily, the local Catholic boys' highschool sent their Glee Club to sing, the school principal gave a tribute to Jack, and even Jack's older sister Lindsey (age 12) got up and read a beautiful tribute also.
When we arrived at the cemetery, we went into a chapel in the mausoleum instead of being outside and Father said the final prayers...such beautiful words of consolation. Then the people from the cemetery had about 50 balloons that they handed out and we all went outside and released them together, sending our messages to Jack. It was a great way of making it easier to leave....
"Life is like a cycle.
Like a plant.....
It is born.
It does some good,
like it is medicine
for someone,
and then it dies."Jack
To be born again in heaven.
This was the inside front page of Jack's funeral Mass program.
In the back, Jay and Suzy wrote this message and I wanted to pass it on to all of you who prayed for Jack and our family because this message is for you too... the first part is another quote from Jack.
"God really watches out for all of us. Like whenever I need a Lego piece
that I can't find, I pray and then a few minutes later,
it's right there!"
We too, have learned that God watches out for us. Our prayers
have been answered in each one of you. When you asked about
Jack, or watched over Lindsey and Kyle or brought us meals or
organized events or offered your prayers and support for our
family, we have felt God's presence. We cannot express enough
our thanks and deep gratitude to all of you. May God bless you always.Jay, Suzy, Lindsey, Kyle
and JackJay and Suzy were always amazed and touched whenever I told them about all of you praying for Jack and our family. You have truly been a witness to all of us of Christian brotherhood.
God bless!
Barb
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Children are Watching Us
Time for some more Giovanni Guareschi.
(A fairly complete compilation of Guareschi's stories, both about his family and about Don Camillo) can be found at The Little World of Giovanni Guareschi.
The Children Are Watching Us
I was taking the air at the window that gave out on the garden. Behind the bars of the gate I saw the mailman putting something into the letter box. At that moment the Pasionaria appeared out of nowhere and went humming to the gate. She opened the letter box and took out a newspaper and several letters.
Unaware that I was watching her, she behaved in a completely natural manner: she tucked the newspaper under her arm, opened the letters, read them, and put them back in the envelopes.
I heard Albertino calling: "Anything there?"
"Nothing," the Pasionaria replied, in a tone of annoyance. "All his stuff."
She came into the house, left the letters and the newspaper, and went back out.
A little later, at the table, I brought the matter up.
"Margherita," I said, "did the mail come?"
"I didn't look in the box," Margherita said.
"I did," announced the Pasionaria. She got the letters and the newspaper. "There was only this junk here."
"How odd!" I cried. "Does the mail arrive in this condition now? I'm going to write a letter of protest to the postmaster. I'll have the mailman fired-he'll learn not to open my letters."
The Pasionaria shook her head. "It wasn't him that opened them," she said. "It was me."
I looked at the envelopes, one by one, then showed them to the Pasionaria.
"But they're all addressed to me," I said. "Why did you open them?"
Without the slightest hesitation, the Pasionaria replied: "I had to. She wasn't here when they arrived,, so I opened them."
"Inconceivable!" I cried. "Are you suggesting that your mother opens letters addressed to me?"
"Of course," replied the Pasionaria.
"Of course nothing!" I cried. "This is something new!"
The Pasionaria gave me a compassionate smile.
"Something new!" she repeated. "Just imagine! Then why are you always hollering at her for opening your letters?"
I had her right where I wanted her.
"Exactly!" I hollered. "And if I holler at your mother because I don't want her to open my letters, why do you open them?"
"Oh, you're always hollering," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "That's all you ever do."
This was too much.
"Do you dare to criticize your parents?" I said.
"Not criticize," said the Pasionaria. "Listen."
Here Margherita intervened. "The children are watching us," she declared in a tone of bitter irony. "Don't forget it, Giovannino. "
"No, Margherita," I said, "I won't forget it. And when they see their mother shamelessly continuing to open letters addressed to her husband even though he's asked her not to, it's only natural for them to open letters addressed to their father or to their mother."
"No," the Pasionaria corrected me, "they don't open letters addressed to their mother."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't open letters addressed to Mama. If her own husband doesn't open them, why should her children?"
It was logic all right, and I felt the full impact of its ghastly lack of logic.
"Very well," I said. "Then why open my letters? If you're your mother's children, aren't you also your father's children?"
Albertino was struck by my clear and cogent argument and indicated that he approved it unconditionally. The Pasionaria, however, had something more to say.
"I don't open my father's letters, I open the letters that come for my mother's husband. Father and mother are the same, they're the parents. But the husband doesn't concern the children, he concerns the wife."
I refused to countenance this.
"For children," I said, "parents are exclusively father and mother. And children must see their parents exclusively as father and mother."
The Pasionaria was not so easily vanquished.
"My mama," she said, "is always my mama even though she's your wife. But my papa, like when he upsets my mama, isn't my papa any more but my mama's husband."
"And how about when your mother upsets me?" I cried indignantly. "Who gets upset, her husband or your father?"
"Her husband," was the Pasionaria's cynical reply. "That's her affair, I don't want to get mixed up in it."
The conclusion was both terrible and inescapable.
"Then all this means," I said, "that while your mother, for, you, is always your mother, I am sometimes your father and sometimes a man who has no direct connection with you but with your mother. Sometimes, in other words, I'm a stranger to you!"
The Pasionaria evidently found my reasoning somewhat difficult to follow, for she remained silent for a time, thinking it over. Then she came to a decision.
"When I was born, you weren't there," she said. "You came back later. But Mama was there."
"So what?" cried Albertino. "It's the men who go to war, not the women!"
"What's that got to do with it?" said the Pasionaria with a shrug. "If women went to war, then my papa would have been home and my mama would have been in the war and I wouldn't have been born."
The Pasionaria left with her brother, and when she said "So long" to me, I didn't know whether she was speaking to her father or the husband of her mother.
When I got home at noon the next day, I found several letters beside my plate, all properly sealed. I derive considerable satisfaction from this-and the Pasionaria appeared to derive considerable surprise. I was aware o her glances as I opened the envelopes with a knife. I was content.
But the next day, unfortunately, I got home a little before noon, and as I crossed the hall I saw Margherita standing over the gas stove in the kitchen, holding an envelope over a kettle of boiling water.
The Pasionaria was watching her.
I went out and stayed out a good half hour.
When I sat down at the table, I found three letters beside my plate. They were all sealed.
After lunch, the children left, and I said to Margherita: "I saw you opening my letters like a concierge. With the little girl right there. Fine tricks you teach your daughter!"
Margherita looked around.
"I didn't teach it to her," she said. "She showed me how to open the envelopes that way."
"Margherita, this is terrible."
"She's the one," Margherita whispered. "She's been after me all morning. She said I let my husband walk all over me, she said I'm spineless!"
"Margherita, you're treading on dangerous ground. You must not listen to her."
"I don't know what to do," Margherita murmured. "I don't know what to do. Giovannino, try to understand!"
I tried to understand.
(A fairly complete compilation of Guareschi's stories, both about his family and about Don Camillo) can be found at The Little World of Giovanni Guareschi.
The Children Are Watching Us
I was taking the air at the window that gave out on the garden. Behind the bars of the gate I saw the mailman putting something into the letter box. At that moment the Pasionaria appeared out of nowhere and went humming to the gate. She opened the letter box and took out a newspaper and several letters.
Unaware that I was watching her, she behaved in a completely natural manner: she tucked the newspaper under her arm, opened the letters, read them, and put them back in the envelopes.
I heard Albertino calling: "Anything there?"
"Nothing," the Pasionaria replied, in a tone of annoyance. "All his stuff."
She came into the house, left the letters and the newspaper, and went back out.
A little later, at the table, I brought the matter up.
"Margherita," I said, "did the mail come?"
"I didn't look in the box," Margherita said.
"I did," announced the Pasionaria. She got the letters and the newspaper. "There was only this junk here."
"How odd!" I cried. "Does the mail arrive in this condition now? I'm going to write a letter of protest to the postmaster. I'll have the mailman fired-he'll learn not to open my letters."
The Pasionaria shook her head. "It wasn't him that opened them," she said. "It was me."
I looked at the envelopes, one by one, then showed them to the Pasionaria.
"But they're all addressed to me," I said. "Why did you open them?"
Without the slightest hesitation, the Pasionaria replied: "I had to. She wasn't here when they arrived,, so I opened them."
"Inconceivable!" I cried. "Are you suggesting that your mother opens letters addressed to me?"
"Of course," replied the Pasionaria.
"Of course nothing!" I cried. "This is something new!"
The Pasionaria gave me a compassionate smile.
"Something new!" she repeated. "Just imagine! Then why are you always hollering at her for opening your letters?"
I had her right where I wanted her.
"Exactly!" I hollered. "And if I holler at your mother because I don't want her to open my letters, why do you open them?"
"Oh, you're always hollering," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "That's all you ever do."
This was too much.
"Do you dare to criticize your parents?" I said.
"Not criticize," said the Pasionaria. "Listen."
Here Margherita intervened. "The children are watching us," she declared in a tone of bitter irony. "Don't forget it, Giovannino. "
"No, Margherita," I said, "I won't forget it. And when they see their mother shamelessly continuing to open letters addressed to her husband even though he's asked her not to, it's only natural for them to open letters addressed to their father or to their mother."
"No," the Pasionaria corrected me, "they don't open letters addressed to their mother."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't open letters addressed to Mama. If her own husband doesn't open them, why should her children?"
It was logic all right, and I felt the full impact of its ghastly lack of logic.
"Very well," I said. "Then why open my letters? If you're your mother's children, aren't you also your father's children?"
Albertino was struck by my clear and cogent argument and indicated that he approved it unconditionally. The Pasionaria, however, had something more to say.
"I don't open my father's letters, I open the letters that come for my mother's husband. Father and mother are the same, they're the parents. But the husband doesn't concern the children, he concerns the wife."
I refused to countenance this.
"For children," I said, "parents are exclusively father and mother. And children must see their parents exclusively as father and mother."
The Pasionaria was not so easily vanquished.
"My mama," she said, "is always my mama even though she's your wife. But my papa, like when he upsets my mama, isn't my papa any more but my mama's husband."
"And how about when your mother upsets me?" I cried indignantly. "Who gets upset, her husband or your father?"
"Her husband," was the Pasionaria's cynical reply. "That's her affair, I don't want to get mixed up in it."
The conclusion was both terrible and inescapable.
"Then all this means," I said, "that while your mother, for, you, is always your mother, I am sometimes your father and sometimes a man who has no direct connection with you but with your mother. Sometimes, in other words, I'm a stranger to you!"
The Pasionaria evidently found my reasoning somewhat difficult to follow, for she remained silent for a time, thinking it over. Then she came to a decision.
"When I was born, you weren't there," she said. "You came back later. But Mama was there."
"So what?" cried Albertino. "It's the men who go to war, not the women!"
"What's that got to do with it?" said the Pasionaria with a shrug. "If women went to war, then my papa would have been home and my mama would have been in the war and I wouldn't have been born."
The Pasionaria left with her brother, and when she said "So long" to me, I didn't know whether she was speaking to her father or the husband of her mother.
When I got home at noon the next day, I found several letters beside my plate, all properly sealed. I derive considerable satisfaction from this-and the Pasionaria appeared to derive considerable surprise. I was aware o her glances as I opened the envelopes with a knife. I was content.
But the next day, unfortunately, I got home a little before noon, and as I crossed the hall I saw Margherita standing over the gas stove in the kitchen, holding an envelope over a kettle of boiling water.
The Pasionaria was watching her.
I went out and stayed out a good half hour.
When I sat down at the table, I found three letters beside my plate. They were all sealed.
After lunch, the children left, and I said to Margherita: "I saw you opening my letters like a concierge. With the little girl right there. Fine tricks you teach your daughter!"
Margherita looked around.
"I didn't teach it to her," she said. "She showed me how to open the envelopes that way."
"Margherita, this is terrible."
"She's the one," Margherita whispered. "She's been after me all morning. She said I let my husband walk all over me, she said I'm spineless!"
"Margherita, you're treading on dangerous ground. You must not listen to her."
"I don't know what to do," Margherita murmured. "I don't know what to do. Giovannino, try to understand!"
I tried to understand.
Good Kids' Movies: Kiki's Delivery Service
One of the rules of the Darwin household (created with the primary intent of preventing master and mistress from becoming any less sane than they are already) is that the monkeys may not own videos or watch TV which the senior Darwins don't also enjoy. This definitely makes things like Barney, Seasame Street, Blues Clues, and anything with Barbie or Pretty Ponies or Care Bears or Strawberry Shortcake verboten.However, every so often something sufficiently charming comes along that we genuinely enjoy adding it to the cannon. Such a one is Kiki's Delivery Service.
While we've enjoyed other Miyazaki films we've seen such as Spirited Away, they've been a bit too odd for the small ones to see without fears of nightmares and such. Kiki, however, is comprehensible to a 3-4 year old, beautifully animated, and just all around a nice story. (Maybe I should just break down an say "sweet", though without any of the treacle the term usually suggests.)
Kiki is a 13-year-old witch off to do the traditional one year's training alone in another city. With her black cat Gigi (a comic character who never goes over the edge into just being annoying like certain animal sidekicks one could name) she settles in a seaside town and starts a delivery service, flying around town on her broom. She's taken under the wing of a very pregnant baker and her husband, and makes a number of friends including a neighborhood boy obsessed with aeronautics, a young female artist who lives off in the woods, and a lonely old lady who likes to bake.
If you're looking for alternative to letting Poomba and Timon's Flatulent Adventure or some other product of modern American animation artistry into your home, give Kiki a shot.
Next up, how about a nice story about bunnies? How would a four-year-old like the animated version of Watership Down? Maybe not quite yet...
The Social Whirl
What we did last weekend:
What we're doing this weekend:
What we're doing next weekend:
What we're doing this weekend:
What we're doing next weekend:
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Classics to Tech: How to Get There from Here
The other day, Kevin Jones (who, BTW, has written a really really cool translation help tool for anyone out there studying Latin, Italian or Spanish -- or trying to brush up their rusty vocabulary), asked in response to a post if I had any advice for a classics major trying to bet into the computer science industry. At the risk of tooting my own horn (and since work has been all-consuming enough this week I haven't had time to think of much else) I figured I'd put down a few thoughts based on my own experience, for whatever that's worth.
Take a job, any job
Well, not necessarily any job. But if you have an apptitude for picking up tech/programming/database skills but no career track record in the area, you're unlikely to get an IT or developer job. However, there are lots of positions which end up benefiting a lot from technical expertise which don't reside in a technical department. The most important thing is flexibility. If you land a fairly cross-functional position, it's easy to dig in, learn the needs of your work group, and produce tools that will become valuable to those around you (or simply allow you to do more work, faster than your peers).
Help People
If there's something that will make you stand out from the standard web development or IT department, it's saying "sure, I can do that" in response to requests. IT and development departments (especially in large organizations) have a habbit of protecting themselves with 12 month+ development roadmaps and prioritazation requirements that make it impossible to get basic, needed tasks done by IT. If you have the toolset to build the small but much needed reporting tools, portals, wikis and such that people need, you'll be much valued. (Just make sure that in doing so you're not violating any rules about who is allowed to create web content.)
Explain & Listen
I'm not as good a developer or even quite as good a reporting wiz as some of the other people I deal with. However, if you take the time to really understand people's needs and to explain to them what you can provide them and why (including why any limitations are necessary) you'll have set yourself above 90% of other 'technical' people. Plus, with a solid classics background, you should be use to dealing with complex abstract concepts and explaining them in decent English prose.
Change Jobs (or Go Independant) When Necessary
As I said, you're unlikely to get a technical job right off, if you don't have the resume tack record to support it. However, once you become known within your organization for doing strong technical work, it's usually much easier to make that case. So changing jobs after 1-2 years of proving yourself is key. Doing independant projects (or simply running your own company for a while) is another great way to prove yourself and build up a good brag list.
After 5-10 Years, No One Will Know the Difference
In my experience, if you come out of college with a Classics degree (or a degree in some similar field) and head towards working in a technical or semi-technical field, you will start out making anywhere from 25-50% less than people with CompSci degrees. However, after 5-10 years, not only will there be no difference in your earning power, but no one will know or care about your degree.
That said, beware of getting boxed in to a type of work that's not sufficiently central to the business. If you want to be a developer, work for a company that produces software or web applications, or start a consulting practice building sites and/or applications. If you work at a company in some other field, get involved with something like sales or marketing analytics. The closer you are to what makes the company money, the fewer career blocks you will have. While if you are in the "IT Department" at a non-tech company (or even many tech companies) you become the bad guy who can never get the infrastructure up fast enough for the rest of the firm to do business. If your work group is made up of aging tech support guys who were promoted to IT so they could get a raise (all of whom have 10-20 years of seniority on you) rest assured that almost no matter how good you are there is unlikely to be a lot of advancement room for you.
Take a job, any job
Well, not necessarily any job. But if you have an apptitude for picking up tech/programming/database skills but no career track record in the area, you're unlikely to get an IT or developer job. However, there are lots of positions which end up benefiting a lot from technical expertise which don't reside in a technical department. The most important thing is flexibility. If you land a fairly cross-functional position, it's easy to dig in, learn the needs of your work group, and produce tools that will become valuable to those around you (or simply allow you to do more work, faster than your peers).
Help People
If there's something that will make you stand out from the standard web development or IT department, it's saying "sure, I can do that" in response to requests. IT and development departments (especially in large organizations) have a habbit of protecting themselves with 12 month+ development roadmaps and prioritazation requirements that make it impossible to get basic, needed tasks done by IT. If you have the toolset to build the small but much needed reporting tools, portals, wikis and such that people need, you'll be much valued. (Just make sure that in doing so you're not violating any rules about who is allowed to create web content.)
Explain & Listen
I'm not as good a developer or even quite as good a reporting wiz as some of the other people I deal with. However, if you take the time to really understand people's needs and to explain to them what you can provide them and why (including why any limitations are necessary) you'll have set yourself above 90% of other 'technical' people. Plus, with a solid classics background, you should be use to dealing with complex abstract concepts and explaining them in decent English prose.
Change Jobs (or Go Independant) When Necessary
As I said, you're unlikely to get a technical job right off, if you don't have the resume tack record to support it. However, once you become known within your organization for doing strong technical work, it's usually much easier to make that case. So changing jobs after 1-2 years of proving yourself is key. Doing independant projects (or simply running your own company for a while) is another great way to prove yourself and build up a good brag list.
After 5-10 Years, No One Will Know the Difference
In my experience, if you come out of college with a Classics degree (or a degree in some similar field) and head towards working in a technical or semi-technical field, you will start out making anywhere from 25-50% less than people with CompSci degrees. However, after 5-10 years, not only will there be no difference in your earning power, but no one will know or care about your degree.
That said, beware of getting boxed in to a type of work that's not sufficiently central to the business. If you want to be a developer, work for a company that produces software or web applications, or start a consulting practice building sites and/or applications. If you work at a company in some other field, get involved with something like sales or marketing analytics. The closer you are to what makes the company money, the fewer career blocks you will have. While if you are in the "IT Department" at a non-tech company (or even many tech companies) you become the bad guy who can never get the infrastructure up fast enough for the rest of the firm to do business. If your work group is made up of aging tech support guys who were promoted to IT so they could get a raise (all of whom have 10-20 years of seniority on you) rest assured that almost no matter how good you are there is unlikely to be a lot of advancement room for you.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Notes on the reading of Pooh
I have never been a fan of the Disney oeuvre, but it is my considered opinion that they have done a great disservice to the public and serious damage to the imaginations of small fry everywhere, with their conception of A.A. Milne's characters. I have a fondness for Pooh (as who does not?) and I loathe almost everything about the Pooh cartoons -- the simplification of Ernest Shepard's charming illustrations, the reduction of the stories from a form that necessitates adult interaction with a child to a smear of bright colors and noise, the dumbing-down of Milne's delightful prose -- but most of all, the voices. Pooh's querulous hesitancy, Piglet's effeminate stutter, Eeyore's moronic drone, Tigger's hyperactive lisp -- no more!
As I've been reading Pooh to the girls for the past several years, I've come up with a set of voices that seem more in line with the characters as written. Pooh, to me, is the quintessential John Bull country squire -- hale, gruff, full of bluster, none too bright but with a certain internal logic that may or may not connect with reality. This Pooh has no truck with apologetic character in the cartoons.
Piglet strikes me as having more than a touch of Bertie Wooster in him. He seems the type of useless young gentleman that one might kicking around a fictional English club (probably the Drones). He may stutter from indignation or surprise, but not because he's a frightened baby. (For the record, Piglet is rarely if ever written as stuttering.)
My model for Eeyore is the sarcastic, sharp, working-class intellectual J.G. Quiggin from A Dance to the Music of Time, or (for those who can't seem to find the time to finish all twelve volumes of that massive work) Barnes, the Captain's bitter valet in Gosford Park. (Coincidentally, Adrian Scarborough, the actor who plays Barnes, also plays Quiggin in the BBC's adaptation of Dance to the Music of Time.) Eeyore may be dour and self-absorbed, but he's not slow. Take his meditation on the letter A:
"I'm telling you. People come and go in the Forest, and they say, 'It's only Eeore, so it doesn't count.' They walk to and fro saying, 'Ha ha!' But do they know anything about A? They don't. It's just three sticks to them. But to the Educated -- mark this, little Piglet -- to the Educated, not meaning Poohs and Piglets, it's a great and glorious A. Not," he added, "just something that anybody can come and breathe on."Tigger's energy and enthusiam make him the perfect candidate for an Australian voice. Think Steve Irwin. Think Crocodile Dundee.
--The House at Pooh Corner
Rabbit is thrifty, sensible, educated but not pretentious. I haven't quite pegged his voice yet, but I think he's Scottish.
Owl is not nearly as smart as Rabbit, but he has gravitas and a certain pomposity. I imagine him posing in a courtroom wearing a large powdered wig and saying "M'Lud". He is slow and grave and rather convinced by his own posturing. His voice is deep and measured and mellifluous.
Darwin and I are divided on the issue of Kanga and Roo. He was raised listening to a Kanga with a Southern accent. That doesn't sound right to me. I haven't placed Kanga in my own mind yet, so I don't have a distinctive voice for her.
One thing is for certain: the Disney cartoons have no place in my house. They may be innocuous entertainment for the young'uns, but one should never make the mistake of confusing blandness with quality.
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