Sent from my iPhone
I know it is Wednesday at 11 o'clock in the morning. It is the one time the whole town knows, because they are testing the tornado warning siren. I never know what time it is by the sun. The sun rises after 7:30 and sets before 5:30. It is always partially dark when I am outside. Most days are bleak and overcast-- constant cloud cover. On Monday, the day looked so beautiful, I walked to work. I realized it was because it was sunny-- 36 degrees and sunny, so I walked. Today is cloudy and 50 degrees, and I could barely drive my car to work.
When I need a mental break, I look at sail boats online. This morning, I found a blog of a young couple who sailed a boat (one of the ones I am looking at) across the Pacific ocean. The photos are amazing. (I feel like I haven't seen anything amazing in a while.)
The most I can do right now is book my holiday flight to California. It looks similar to those pictures, though the water was never that blue, and it is very cold. I wonder if I will wear shorts there?
A tragedy occurred on our campus recently, and it has affected segments of our community in a variety of ways. Some feel their mortality, the fragility of their perceived youthful power and vitality. Some feel ambivalent, as the victim seems to have been a loner, an angry person, a self-destructive lost soul (all rumors). Many are afraid. Fingers are being pointed by everyone, at everyone. Who's fault is it? Who will take the fall? Is it because of this tradition or that precedent? This can be changed, but that cannot because it will infuriate the donors/alumni. It seems all of the outcomes involve innocent people getting hurt and blamed.
I took some time today to head to the local cemeteries. I was missing a few of my stone-dates, one of which was coming up this week. We went to three graveyards and were able to find all my missing dates for the year! Now I will have to go through to see which ones I would like to redo, and I would like to have some with snow and ice (I will take in December or so), but otherwise, all done! Hooray for finishing a project (kind of)!
Living in a small town like Crawfordsville, the historically prominent figures are ever-present in the forms of famous homes, street names, town names, legacies at the college, etc. To walk through the cemetery and know so many of the names was slightly eerie. Above, you see a rather eccentric stone to a former Wabash professor (where I teach). These are gentle reminders that all people, great and small, find a resting place eventually. I think the inscription is funny, like a loaded allussion I will have to investigate from historical accounts of the man himself. "A Maker of Men" could refer to the constant revisitation of the debate to make the college co-educational. It could mean he was a cruel teacher. It could mean he was an admirable teacher. It could mean he experimented with Frankenstein-like ideas. It could mean he thought of himself as god.
This little skeleton was on one of the graves. It is the discarded skin of the nymph cicada, still covered in the mud it was living in for some number of years before its emergence this summer.
This is Crystal and I with Lew Wallace. I don't know if he also emerged from the ground this summer for the Montgomery County celebration. His grave seemed in order today, though there is the photographic proof from last night!
A few months back, after a series of near catastrophes (read here and here; I never wrote about the car accident) we had come to the conclusion that Indiana was trying to kill J. All in good fun, to say such a thing, but there were some close calls, and some of these things we are still recovering from.
We specifically thought it was after J. Anything that happened to me, well, I had gotten in the way of 'it' getting to him. Then, summer arrived.
I haven't had a chance to post images, but Indiana seems to be a veritable cornucopia of insect life. The numbers of wasp species is stunning; the Dobsonfly was shocking; the giant butterflies skiting about have sent interns and J after them with nets for a key scene in the video. All of these constantly send me to my favorite bug ID site to see what is what, and what it does.
Which brings me back to my hypothesis that Indiana is trying to kill me. Don't get me wrong-- Texas tried to kill me once in August, more than a decade ago. I had enough mosquito bites to make my knees swell and send me into a fever. Apparently my immune system has had enough and developed an allergy to them (as it does with everything else I get too much of: cats, contact lenses, strawberries). In Florida, I grew my allergy to the black fly, lovingly called a "no-see-'em." My feet may still be scarred. Those were places I was visiting. They were temporary. I actually live here. On purpose! And the chiggers of Indiana are welcoming me with open arms-- I have the welts to prove it.
Welts, sunburn, ragging rivers have not stopped the filming of my project. Occasionally, we are stung by nettles (oh, good, I found them first), swarmed by gnats (they go straight for the eyes, then up the nose), chased by wasps, and generally cut off from bathrooms, food and water (starting to keep all these things in the car).
Still worth it...
Stills from All Good Things Will Come to You Soon
There is a phenomenon us city dwellers have heard of (not in a detailed kind of way, but in "the name sounds familiar" kind of way) and that is the 4-H club. I was in a 2-H club in high school--the history and humanities club, but I am pretty sure it's not the same thing. 4-H has something to do with raising animals while in school. Even when you read about it, it is 
fraught with vagueness, like this giant, inside joke that city folk specifically aren't supposed to understand.I did know there were supposed to be animals, and as that is my favorite part of the LA County Fair, I tricked two of my NYC friends (who also find themselves inexplicably in Indiana) into going. As we were later going to a play, they asked me with dubious arch of eyebrow, "so, should we go there for an hour, then off to our play?" An hour? But what if it is wonderful? What if it is the best thing there is? (Keep in mind, I almost invited them to the Fort Ouiatenon Spring Festival, which ended up being boring except for jumping into the river. So I was a little worried about talking it up too much.) 
Just in case of a bust, we also arranged to have drinks between fair and play, and the three hours I asked them to set aside seemed more logical.
When we arrived, we couldn't help noticing the smallness of the county fairgrounds. The only county fairs I have ever been to have been in counties with populations as big as 
this state, so I should have expected it. I became afraid. We walked through the booth area. There were only six booths. I became very afraid. Then we saw the baby animal tent and all was well. It's amazing how baby animals melt all hearts equally, even those of the coolest New Yorkers. Here you see my beautiful friend becoming so overcome by the cuteness of a goat, that she cannot pose for a photograph. As least she is there for size comparison, and as a reference point for delight-reaction.
We ended up spending the three hours looking at the animals, cakes, and science projects. We also watched a horse-ridding demonstration. In case you haven't googled 4-H by now, it is basically a fair of agricultural and craft/home-making demonstrations by school-aged children, so they can grow up to be smart in rural knowledge. 
You know, all that stuff city-folk have forgotten (like milking cows, slaughtering chickens, baking pies, sewing dresses, racing horses, castrating sheep, etc.).
Some of it seemed so surreal. For example, all the kids were wearing helmets on the horses (while helmets are not required or encouraged in this whole state-- I have definitely left California). No sooner had we commented on it, when a running horse fell and half rolled on his young rider. [I thought, oh no, not again. Luckily, there was a doctor closer to her than me.] Other surrealnesses were in our plain ignorance. In the sheep pens, we noted some were sheared, others not, and some seemed to be dressed like klansmen. I'm sure there is a reason. We are still learning the local language and something has been lost in translation.
I hate to always say something good with something bad but I am going to give a couple here.
I was talking to the library archivist today and she was saying these areas I have been hiking have been popular destinations for more than one hundred and fifty years. They would load up in the back of a wagon, take all morning to get there, have a picnic, and ride back by evening.
We went on a marvelous hike before J left town again at the Big Pine State Park (right next to Shades). The above was taken at one of these ancient picnicking spots. It is no wonder that the cliff is covered in ancient and charming graffiti, from generations of wily youths. How many of my students are off doing that same thing right now?
So my complaint is about the photos I took (using a funny camera, I admit, but still. More here). I used to get very good pictures developed and printed at Target, and for some (dumb) reason, I was convinced that Walmart's mail-in service would be similar. No. Probably the worst prints I've ever seen, and the CD was hardly well done enough for heavy Photoshopping for the Internet. Lesson continually learned: you get what you pay for.
Another contrasting set of random events.
My step-mom had to put one of her/our cats to sleep today. She was sixteen or so. That's a lot for a cat, but it is still sad.
And I am confirmed for a solo show in January in Georgia. I am now confirmed as a nationally showing artist.
I went to prepare my lunch sandwich just now. It might sound banal, but there is something very appealing about cleaning up the dishes and preparing a delicious sandwich. I have been using the beautiful romaine leaves from the plants grown before I left for N.Y. I was surprised to find these perfect romaine heads on my return. The corn did not reach knee high the month I was gone (clearly, hefty fertilizers are involved in those fields), and the zucchini (normally a garden champion) succumbed to the attacks by the weeds. But my beautiful little lettuce was thriving. I only planted one, and looking at it, I think it would make a good salad for one. To spread out the delight it gives me, I am reserving its leaves for sandwiches-- two per day. When I went to pluck my two leaves, I found this little fellow, reminding me of the videos I had prepared for you, waiting silently on my camera. I apologize for the delay, and will post them now, post-haste.
When I moved here, several people (who had moved here before me) said they thought people here were very nice and I would be pleasantly surprised by them. It is true that they smile at you on the street (they do this in California too, but I couldn't get anyone to smile at me in Rochester)-- well, maybe half do. And when it was obvious our lawn mover was broken, a neighbor lent us one. That was nice.
But mostly I've found people had very poor manners, meaning they tend to be rude, which I will always extrapolate into not-nice. It's been hard to explain, because I didn't have any good examples. Until today.
Kristen is in the basement of the antique store. It is 4:45 P.M.
Old Lady: "Is anyone down here?"
K: "Yes."
Old Lady: "Oooooh."
K: "Are you closed?"
Old Lady: "Not yet."Old Lady turns out the lights. Kristen makes a noise of surprise, then stumbles through the dark basement full of rusty crap towards the stairs.
Old Lady: "Were you done?"
K: "No, but I guess I am now."
Old Lady: "Was there something there you wanted?"
K: "Don't know, I can't see now." Reaches stairs.
Old Lady: "I could turn the lights back on."
K: "Don't bother."
Believe it or not, there are things I love here, unexpected, mundane everyday things that have called for my attention, and I have carried throughout the day like a sigh of relief. They are as follows:
A beautiful breakfast sandwich, made with mozzarellas (I will never want one with cheddar again), eggs (white only), and bacon from Grandpa's Farm in Ohio (a tourist stop, not my Grandpa). Lightly toasted and delicious.
Summer wild flowers-- they are heftier than the spring ones were, and they wave at me from the sides of the roads, like hitchhikers beckoning me to take them home with me. I am convinced the purple one is a wild onion, and is has a sweet smell that has filled my dining room.
New hair color, paired with great grandma's beads I have never worn. I needed to touch up the color, and with a new cut, I thought I would start with a clean slate altogether.
I had been slightly influenced to change my color by the fact that, last weekend at a 5th of July party, I was being confused with "the other blond lady in the art department." Perhaps the greatest problem with teaching at an all male college is women are rare enough, folks (OK, only the men were doing it) surrender to their temptation of distinguishing us by the tones of our tresses. At the time, someone shouted, "no, she isn't that one. She's the one that saved the man from the river." OK, at least a more exciting a description than 'the blond.'
Anyways, I was ready to change my locks' shades. Last night I took the plunge into the bottle, this morning, unleashing my new color on the masses. Today, I had a technology meeting with a friend from across campus, who happens to have a similar color of hair as my new one. Oh, now I can be confused with her! I'm starting to see that this is not the answer to being a unique woman in a small town in Indiana.
I am at work right now. The evening security guard came by to lock up the doors. He's seen me before, usually just says hello and moves on, but for some reason, stopped in just now and asked if I was the new Costume Design person. No, I'm not. "Oh, because I ran into her husband and he said they just moved here." Nope, not me. "Oh. Then you're the one who saved someone from the river." It is so hard to distinguish women around here.
I have been trying to come up with how exactly to write this post for twenty-four hours. Well, just under twenty-four. I am looking at the time on my laptop, and I can't believe it hasn't been that long yet. The events of those twenty-something hours have a certain poetry to them and I want to make sure I capture that poetry, as macabre as it is. I should warn you it isn't a pretty, fun, or uplifting poem, but one the likes of Edger Allen Poe.
The poem starts with us listening to an episode of "This American Life," about Prom, but that segment was about a prom disrupted by a tornado. I was thinking it was pretty funny, because Proms are lame anyway, and the teens had a video camera at the time, so their audio of being jerky-drunk teens was hilarious. And we know ahead of time it is a tornado, so we know houses will be knocked down and that will suck, but somehow it doesn't strike me as sad. Toward the end, one of the kids they keep interviewing was talking, recapping all the bad things that had happened in the past year. His dad had died on his birthday, his mom couldn't afford their east-end home so they moved to the west side where the new house was destroyed by a tornado. He says he feels doomed. The narrator explains he is going to college in the fall, but wants to work on an oil rig instead and give the money to help his mom. By then, the story was sober enough, we weren't laughing at them any more. To drive home the fact we were jerks for laughing at all, the main narrator, Ira Glass, comes on at the end, and says this same kid died in a car accident a few weeks later. I guess some people are just doomed after all.
That is the moment we pulled off the freeway into Crawfordsville, fighting little tears at the futility of this poor kid's truncated life.
The town looked the same with the exception of the number of fireworks stands set up in the empty lots. The house was where we left it-- someone had moved the lawn by the sidewalk, but weeds were chocking the cracks of the walkway to our porch. A contractor had installed a new lock and replaced the kitchen ceiling while we were gone, so I didn't have a key. J dug for it in his bag while I made trips from the car, anxious because the next-door-neighbor-sex-offender was in his yard watching me (I know he only likes children, but I don't like making eye contact with him--I don't want him to see how disgusting I think he is). We finally get inside. In the house, I sigh in relief, but "it smells a little in here," then go to switch on the light. But the light doesn't go on. There is stuff all over, moved about by the contractor (and paint on the floor, and grease in the bathroom sink-- but that is a different story). On the table by the door is the pile of the last mail my friend took in before the vacation hold stopped the delivery. Right in the pile is the notice we owe $25 and if it isn't paid by the 20th, they will shut off the power. Fourteen days ago. There was a little of this "I thought you paid this," "No, you were supposed to" kind of nonsense, but it was futile and we both knew it.
Hesitantly, we approached the fridge to reveal the smell. We happen to be the kind of people who rarely have a stocked fridge. That should have worked in our favor. However, before I left, J had surgery and I had stocked the freezer with frozen food for him. He ended up going to California before eating any of it.
The fridge smelled bad, but nothing like the freezer. A vomit-inducing odor lay in wait there, the tiny fruit flies hovered over it eagerly (I think they were vivaciously celebrating their revenge against me for the genetic experiments we did on them in college-- I was tempted to check them for the classic mutations we were supposed to document in our lab books). J put on gloves to carry out the contents of the fridge, while I moved the rest of our belongings into the house. The lack of power, the fact our bathrooms were window-less, and my desire for a shower quenched any of my longings to join the 4th of July festivities we had planned to attend. The smell wasn't any better, and now had escaped the freezer and was at-large in the house. (I didn't discover until today, the panel at the bottom of the freezer, hiding the dripping ooze and maggoty remains of our food.)
So, we left to check into a hotel. The cats had food and water, so all was well. I said to J, "the only thing I want from a hotel is a pool. That can make this better. And beer. Lots of beer." Driving down the road to the grocery story, we passed this.
We pulled over to take this picture, and I was picturing this post, how to express how I was feeling about this town and being back and the chaos that is living in a rental, when a woman (townie) walked up to ask what I was doing. I was feeling so defensive, I was curt with her and wanted to take my pictures and run. She was persistent, and before I could stop it, was going on about the fire and the town. She kept saying, "this is an historic landmark, it was built in the 1950s!" In a town where everything was built before 1880, this didn't seem impressive to me. And she kept talking about all the animals in the pet shop that burned up, how they died in vain. I couldn't imagine how else they could have died, other than being eaten, but it was cruel and unusual. She wanted me to walk around the building with her to try to see the burned remains. I was suddenly worried about leaving the cats alone in our house. In a town like this, it could catch fire any moment.
By the time we got to the hotel, it was 9:50, and the pool closed at 10. Forget it, I said, I want to just go drink all this wine and sleep in the king-sized bed.
But the fireflies on the way their were amazing.
