One of the nice things about moving away from the place where you grew up is getting a chance, every now and then, to travel back there for a visit. For a number of reasons, a week spent with family and old friends can do a world of good for your spirit.
First, unless you are some kind of sociopath or just one of the world's biggest assholes, everyone "back home" is happy to see you. You get warm smiles, rib-cracking hugs, and plenty of "Gee, it's great to see you," moments everywhere you go. If you're lucky, you get to spend some time with people you have known and loved --and who have known and loved you-- catching up on the good stuff in your lives. Having just had lunch yesterday with one such friend (who is turning 40 today, and I wish him well), I can confirm that Facebook is a pale substitute for face time with old friends. Nothing quite compares to lift you experience when you see your best self reflected in the teary eyes of a sibling or when an old friend reminds you that you that despite the years, you really haven't changed a bit, not where it counts, anyway. Sadly, most of us aren't as forthcoming with heartfelt appreciation and affirmation of the folks we see day-in and day-out. Maybe we should try that out more often.
The second big benefit to a hometown visit is getting to eat food you just can't get in the place you live now. Even in the day of Internet commerce and same-day shipping, you can't really experience the joy of a freshly baked pizza or Italian hoagie in Seattle, say, or Omaha. And no matter how good the chicken parmigiana is at your local Italian joint, it will never compare to the landmark feast of saucy, cheesy goodness served up by your family's "celebration" restaurant. I've already managed to savor those goodies, and I still have a few more "must-haves" on my list before we leave town. There will be plenty of time for restraint and salad next week; today is about proper fish sandwiches and pierogies.
Another fun bit is roaming the streets and back roads of your childhood stomping grounds, seeing what has changed and, more likely in certain parts of the world, what has not. Here on "Planet Yinz," as my old pal Craig Whyel calls it, most of the change is brought about by Mother Nature in the way of encroaching vines and rust. But there's a beauty in this decay, like the deep furrows of a life well-lived on an old Eastern European woman's face or the intricate tatters of sunlight through ancient cotton lace curtains. Other changes, the ebb and flow of business, industry, commerce, offer alternating stings from both boarded storefronts and sprawling shopping centers.It's always hard to tell whether the place is declining or recovering, but it is most certainly still here.
Today we'll do some more wandering, some more eating, and spend the evening laughing and drinking and talking with some of the best people I have ever known. At the end of the night, my heart will swell with the desire to take them all back home with me when I go.
Back home.
To Seattle.
Not here.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Ada Lovelace Day: Celebrating Women in Technology
When I started thinking about subjects for Ada Lovelace Day this year, I ran through a list of obvious choices, luminaries and inventors, brilliant scientists and savvy entrepreneurs.
Then I stopped in my tracks and realized I had the perfect subject for an entry celebrating women in technology: me.
No, I haven't shattered any long-held assumptions or shifted anybody's paradigm, but I have spent the better part of the last thirteen years working at some of the most innovative companies in the world. One could argue that I had a hand in developing the original social networking site and have, indeed, lent my 17-year-old image to one of the most successful online advertising campaigns of all time.
More importantly, though, I have spent the last dozen years or so learning new things every day and passing that knowledge on to others, men and women, so that they can better understand and leverage the power of information and technology.
That's about it, really. So I can only leave you with a reprise of last year's entry about the amazing Janet Galore and a poem I wrote a few years ago that refers to Ada Lovelace, whom I greatly admire.
Then I stopped in my tracks and realized I had the perfect subject for an entry celebrating women in technology: me.
No, I haven't shattered any long-held assumptions or shifted anybody's paradigm, but I have spent the better part of the last thirteen years working at some of the most innovative companies in the world. One could argue that I had a hand in developing the original social networking site and have, indeed, lent my 17-year-old image to one of the most successful online advertising campaigns of all time.
More importantly, though, I have spent the last dozen years or so learning new things every day and passing that knowledge on to others, men and women, so that they can better understand and leverage the power of information and technology.
That's about it, really. So I can only leave you with a reprise of last year's entry about the amazing Janet Galore and a poem I wrote a few years ago that refers to Ada Lovelace, whom I greatly admire.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Book Review: Chalice
Chalice by Robin McKinleyMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I may be something of a freak among Robin McKinley's readers, but I actually loved both Chalice and Sunshine. The books both feature a young, innately talented heroine coming into awareness of her true power and purpose. Though each book explores that premise quite differently, each delivers a satisfying story with well-written characters, nicely paced plots, and enough world-building to keep things truly interesting.
In Chalice, I particularly enjoyed McKinley's lush and evocative exploration of bees and beekeeping, her examinations of the medicinal and magical properties of honey.
Chalice is an altogether enjoyable read.
View all my reviews >>
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Book Review: Sunshine
Sunshine by Robin McKinleyMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
I picked this book up for a number of reasons: its compelling cover, good things I had heard about Robin McKinley's writing, a desire to read some vampire fiction that had a little more substance than, well, most of the stuff in that genre.I'm happy to say, I was pleasantly surprised.The plot was a little slow and honestly didn't come to a truly satisfying resolution, but the book worked for me. The characters are both interesting and original.In fact, I wouldn't mind reading more about them.
View all my reviews >>
Book Review: The Time Traveler's Wife
The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey NiffeneggerI can't begin to describe how disappointing I found this book. After tons of hype and many friends insisting that I read it. Insisting that I would love it. I really had to take a few steps back and evaluate whether those friends know me very well at all. I found the premise dull, the characters annoying, and the prose, quite frankly, as dull as a pair of grade-school scissors.
Blah.
Meh.
And a whole lot of other monosyllables that I can think of that are synonymous with "crap."
View all my reviews >>
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Cats and their people
While the news has bled misery and tumult on a grand scale, the much more intimate woes afflicting a small cat and her beloved people have turned me introspective and a bit weepy this week.
They've also got me thinking about cats and their people.
On Wednesday, author Neil Gaiman tweeted that his blind cat, Zoe, was ill and at the vet's for an x-ray and endoscopy. By Thursday, the bad news returned that Zoe had an inoperable tumor.
Gaiman blogged about Zoe, as did photographer Kyle Cassady whose shots of Zoe reveal not only how beautiful she is, but what a sweet and gentle loving nature she has. Other members of Gaiman's extended family of artists, musicians, and magic-makers shared their memories of the cat in blogs and tweets. The much larger realm of Gaiman fans and followers (of which I am obviously one), expressed their condolences and spilled their grief as I am doing now.
"I'm wondering what it is about this small blind cat that inspires such behaviour," Gaiman writes. "I think it may be the love. Hers, once given, was yours, unconditionally and utterly."
I think there may be something to it, that notion about unconditional love in certain cats that transcend the role of pet or companion animal to become, well and truly, our familiars. As someone who has been lucky enough to have kept a few such cats (for keeping them is what we do; we never own them or master them), I marvel that some people never come to know such a cat at all. And I have been, at least once, lucky enough to have had the same cat (well, sort of the same cat) come to me twice.
In the late 1980s when I was teaching at a public university in Pennsylvania, I accepted a couple of cats from a student of mine whose landlord was averse to pets. One of the cats was a small, slender tortoise shell who bore much greater resemblance to a space alien than to a cat. She was eager and energetic and full of surprise. We called her Babette.
Her companion cat was a round and robust black shorthair with emerald eyes and the demeanor of a foreign potentate, the benevolent demi-goddess of some imagined island people who lived on milk and honey and prayed by imitating the sound of her low, gentle purr. She came to me with the unlikely name of Pumpkin, and almost immediatley communicated to me in that way cats do that her "deep and inscrutable singular Name" was Joss. Much better.
I wasn't lucky enough to keep Joss for very long, but the time I had with her was remarkable. She was the sort of cat you could have a conversation with, confess your troubles to, ask for advice. And she delivered. I swear, as will my then roommate, Jeff, that the cat could stare sense into us when we were spinning out of control. She had command. She had presence. She had gravitas.
Since she came to me as an adult, I had no way of knowing how long she would be in our lives. Sadly, it was only a couple of years before she quietly breathed her last on a soft, rag rug and we laid her to rest in the back yard behind the garage where cat bones have rested for many, many years.
I grieved her something awful, even with a handful of other cats around, including Babette, to nuzzle my chin and warm my lap.
Some 20 years later, moved to Seattle, I lost yet another great cat (Salieri, about whom much can be written). His companion cat, Stinky (who lives with me still, slowed a bit now at 19 years), keened the loss so terribly that I felt compelled to find him a new companion with all due haste.
I left work a bit early and stopped by the PAWS cat adoption center to see if they had a kitten who might make a good friend for Stinky. I checked out the dozen or so kittens and young adult cats they had on hand, but none of them seemed to want to come home with me. I was about to give up when I noticed a plump, lush black shorthair lounging on the chair behind the reception desk, acting for all the world like she was waiting for her administrative assistant to bring her a cup of coffee.
I asked Dawn, the PAWS adoption services lady, if I could walk behind the counter and say hello.
"Sure," she said. "She's a real sweetie. I'd actually be sad to see her go."
I walked around the desk and kneeled down to look into her dazzling emerald eyes. She licked my nose.
"I'll start the paperwork," Dawn said.
So, it wasn't just that she so readily and immediately accepted me as a bigger cat, a someone-to-be-groomed, that made it impossible for me to leave PAWS without her that day. It was a sense that we had already known each other for a good long time. She was truly my familiar.
And so Toots (whose name at the time was Hera) came home with me that day. She and Stinky took a whole 48 hours to get used to each other. By the end of week, they were curled up on eachother making what looked like a two-headed black cat. Here is photographic evidence of that phenomenon.
For nearly 8 years, Toots sat in my lap, slept on my head, and kept me most excellent company.
When Jeff met her, he, too, felt that sense of familiarity. We both felt lucky simply to have such a cat in our lives again.
When I started dating Damon, Toots let me know what she thought of him by climbing up behind him on the couch and licking his head. To his credit, he let her do it. I knew in that instant that I would surely love him for a good long time.
Sadly, Toots was diagnosed with kidney disease early in 2004. We fed her a special diet, hydrated her subcutaneously, and loved her as much as we possibly could for the next three years. On April 21, 2007, she breathed her last. I still mist up when I think about her.
Some cats are, indeed, like that.
Right now, Gaiman's blind cat Zoe is at the center of a widening circle of people all focused on the wonder of her love.
Right now, I'm grateful for every day that I wake up with Stinky on my head or behind my knees.
Right now, my friend Claire is sad and grateful for her cat, Spiff, who is nearing the end of his days but continues to climb onto her lap to be loved.
These cats are more than pets, more than friends, even. They get to us, they touch our softest, most human centers and remind us that love can be unconditional and healing and strong. And even though we don't get to share that love with them in this world forever, we never lose it really. We just hang on to it and pass it along.
These cats teach us that love can stay.
They've also got me thinking about cats and their people.
On Wednesday, author Neil Gaiman tweeted that his blind cat, Zoe, was ill and at the vet's for an x-ray and endoscopy. By Thursday, the bad news returned that Zoe had an inoperable tumor.
Gaiman blogged about Zoe, as did photographer Kyle Cassady whose shots of Zoe reveal not only how beautiful she is, but what a sweet and gentle loving nature she has. Other members of Gaiman's extended family of artists, musicians, and magic-makers shared their memories of the cat in blogs and tweets. The much larger realm of Gaiman fans and followers (of which I am obviously one), expressed their condolences and spilled their grief as I am doing now.
"I'm wondering what it is about this small blind cat that inspires such behaviour," Gaiman writes. "I think it may be the love. Hers, once given, was yours, unconditionally and utterly."
I think there may be something to it, that notion about unconditional love in certain cats that transcend the role of pet or companion animal to become, well and truly, our familiars. As someone who has been lucky enough to have kept a few such cats (for keeping them is what we do; we never own them or master them), I marvel that some people never come to know such a cat at all. And I have been, at least once, lucky enough to have had the same cat (well, sort of the same cat) come to me twice.
In the late 1980s when I was teaching at a public university in Pennsylvania, I accepted a couple of cats from a student of mine whose landlord was averse to pets. One of the cats was a small, slender tortoise shell who bore much greater resemblance to a space alien than to a cat. She was eager and energetic and full of surprise. We called her Babette.
Her companion cat was a round and robust black shorthair with emerald eyes and the demeanor of a foreign potentate, the benevolent demi-goddess of some imagined island people who lived on milk and honey and prayed by imitating the sound of her low, gentle purr. She came to me with the unlikely name of Pumpkin, and almost immediatley communicated to me in that way cats do that her "deep and inscrutable singular Name" was Joss. Much better.
I wasn't lucky enough to keep Joss for very long, but the time I had with her was remarkable. She was the sort of cat you could have a conversation with, confess your troubles to, ask for advice. And she delivered. I swear, as will my then roommate, Jeff, that the cat could stare sense into us when we were spinning out of control. She had command. She had presence. She had gravitas.
Since she came to me as an adult, I had no way of knowing how long she would be in our lives. Sadly, it was only a couple of years before she quietly breathed her last on a soft, rag rug and we laid her to rest in the back yard behind the garage where cat bones have rested for many, many years.
I grieved her something awful, even with a handful of other cats around, including Babette, to nuzzle my chin and warm my lap.
Some 20 years later, moved to Seattle, I lost yet another great cat (Salieri, about whom much can be written). His companion cat, Stinky (who lives with me still, slowed a bit now at 19 years), keened the loss so terribly that I felt compelled to find him a new companion with all due haste.
I left work a bit early and stopped by the PAWS cat adoption center to see if they had a kitten who might make a good friend for Stinky. I checked out the dozen or so kittens and young adult cats they had on hand, but none of them seemed to want to come home with me. I was about to give up when I noticed a plump, lush black shorthair lounging on the chair behind the reception desk, acting for all the world like she was waiting for her administrative assistant to bring her a cup of coffee.
I asked Dawn, the PAWS adoption services lady, if I could walk behind the counter and say hello.
"Sure," she said. "She's a real sweetie. I'd actually be sad to see her go."
I walked around the desk and kneeled down to look into her dazzling emerald eyes. She licked my nose.
"I'll start the paperwork," Dawn said.
So, it wasn't just that she so readily and immediately accepted me as a bigger cat, a someone-to-be-groomed, that made it impossible for me to leave PAWS without her that day. It was a sense that we had already known each other for a good long time. She was truly my familiar.
And so Toots (whose name at the time was Hera) came home with me that day. She and Stinky took a whole 48 hours to get used to each other. By the end of week, they were curled up on eachother making what looked like a two-headed black cat. Here is photographic evidence of that phenomenon.
For nearly 8 years, Toots sat in my lap, slept on my head, and kept me most excellent company.
When Jeff met her, he, too, felt that sense of familiarity. We both felt lucky simply to have such a cat in our lives again.
When I started dating Damon, Toots let me know what she thought of him by climbing up behind him on the couch and licking his head. To his credit, he let her do it. I knew in that instant that I would surely love him for a good long time.
Sadly, Toots was diagnosed with kidney disease early in 2004. We fed her a special diet, hydrated her subcutaneously, and loved her as much as we possibly could for the next three years. On April 21, 2007, she breathed her last. I still mist up when I think about her.
Some cats are, indeed, like that.
Right now, Gaiman's blind cat Zoe is at the center of a widening circle of people all focused on the wonder of her love.
Right now, I'm grateful for every day that I wake up with Stinky on my head or behind my knees.
Right now, my friend Claire is sad and grateful for her cat, Spiff, who is nearing the end of his days but continues to climb onto her lap to be loved.
These cats are more than pets, more than friends, even. They get to us, they touch our softest, most human centers and remind us that love can be unconditional and healing and strong. And even though we don't get to share that love with them in this world forever, we never lose it really. We just hang on to it and pass it along.
These cats teach us that love can stay.
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