real-world education

Realities and the Rearview Mirror

bulfytrLeave a comment

Two realities about book writing and publishing have been on my mind lately: (1) There’s a first book in everyone, but a second one in a very few; and (2) 98% of all books published don’t sell 200 copies.

So to celebrate this Friday’s release of my first novel, The Precariousness of Done, which, if reality is truth, will be my only book and sell miserably, I’m going to pull back the curtain on myself, my writing, etc., and fully answer a few questions posed to me last fall by my publisher.

Self-promotion does not come easily to me, nor does talking about myself, but I stepped outside my comfort zone the moment I sent out that first round of query letters–all of which went unanswered. My comfort zone is now far in the rearview mirror, and book number two and the elusive 2% may actually lie ahead of me, so I’m going to keep my eyes on the road and get back to writing. I hope you find something entertaining, informative, or useful in the following interview:

1. What was it about the Spanish language that drew you in? What is it about Spain (and specifically Spanish culture) that interests you?

Life and the world are larger than what fits in the palm of your hand, and what took me to Spain for the first time (during high school) was the desire to experience what was beyond the reach of my fingers. What has kept me going back to Spain during the thirty years since high school are the sound of Castilian Spanish to my ears, the tastes and smells of Spanish food and drink, and the firmness of the embraces of the Spanish friends I have made over the years.

2. How does being fluent in Spanish change your writing? How does it affect you and your view of the world? (You can speak about how knowing a second language in general affects these things.)

Studying a second language makes you more proficient at your first one, increases your vocabulary, and opens your eyes to the world beyond your borders. Stereotypes are eroded or destroyed altogether. Every Spaniard isn’t a bullfighter. Spanish and Mexican cultures are distinct; the word taco in Spain means “cussword.” The translations of other Spanish words and phrases enhance my writing and provide a richer and fuller cultural experience for my readers: There’s nothing wrong with using the American expression “when pigs fly,” but in Spain an unlikely event happens “when frogs grow fur.”

3. What is your writing routine like?

I am an obsessive-compulsive night owl whose creativity waxes as daylight wanes. I rarely write during the day, but use that time instead for research and brainstorming. I also edit as I write, and most—if not all—of the sentences in my upcoming novel were rewritten in excess of one hundred times before anyone else set eyes on my manuscript. That comment brings me to this one: Don’t fall in love with a sentence, and never ever marry one. Cast aside any and everything that isn’t working and don’t consider the time you spent as “wasted.” Time is never wasted if you learn something along the way. And as someone for whom writing well is exceedingly difficult and unnatural, I must exercise my writing muscles every day. Easier to stay in the groove than get in one.

4. What does writing mean to you? What does it do for you? Can you also answer this question as it pertains to having OCD (In what ways does this make it more challenging or otherwise)?

I began writing twenty years ago, and when I did, I had only one goal in mind: to write something I wanted to read. I never intended to write for anyone else, and I wrote about what I knew, including obsessive-compulsive disorder (from which I have suffered my entire life) and the Spanish language (having lived in Spain after graduating from high school). My first novel grew out of a personal challenge to see if I could write something someone else wanted to read. Having achieved that goal (fingers crossed), what keeps me motivated is trying to repeat my success while growing as a writer. Speaking honestly, I marvel at those writers for whom writing is easy. For me, it’s often a tedious, soul-sucking process that leaves me riddled with self-doubt. My obsessive-compulsive disorder, which manifests itself in “checking, locking, rattling—generally, being ‘done’ with anything,” further complicates the process and slows my pace. But as is often the case with a disorder, tendency, etc., there are significant “positives” that come with having OCD, especially as a writer: attention to large and small details in storytelling, manuscripts with clean grammar and punctuation, and the essential need to read a sentence or paragraph for clarity’s sake just one more time.

5. What is something you want people to know about the Spanish language and/or culture?

Spaniards are addicted to tradition.

Generally, native speakers of European Spanish and Latin American Spanish understand each other, but the many Spanish dialects and accents and the pace of conversational speech can present significant challenges for even advanced learners.

In Spain, it’s not unusual for grown children—even 30-year-olds— to still be living at home.

6. Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

If writing is your hobby or emotional therapy, beware of turning your avocation into your vocation.

Hire a professional editor. And if you’re pleasantly or smugly surprised by the small number of edits he or she suggests, consider hiring a different editor.

Be genuine, emotional, and fearless. Draw from your personal experiences, changing the names of persons and places as necessary. If the folks in your life are offended, they can write their own books.

The publishing world owes you nothing, and your manuscript, whether solicited or unsolicited, is only your baby. Agents and publishers are overwhelmed by the heaps of manuscripts they receive (on a daily/weekly/monthly basis), and they are often looking for any reason to reject you. Don’t submit anything (even a query) until its perfect.

Book publishing is a business, and a book, much like a new burger at McDonald’s, is a product created and submitted for public consumption. No matter how brilliant or creative or famous the chef is, there’s no guarantee that the consumer will eat the sandwich.

I find several world-beating authors to be nearly unreadable, including Hemingway and Kerouac. Fight the urge or need to be someone else. Find your own voice.

An Official Unofficial Creed

bulfytrLeave a comment

Unless you live or work in Manhattan, odds are that you don’t know the official name of the main United States Postal Service building in New York City. No need for Google or Siri: It’s the James A. Farley Building.

Named after America’s 53rd Postmaster General, the Farley Building sits along 8th Avenue between 31st and 33rd Streets and is accessed by a wide flight of steps that rises toward a series of stately columns. The colonnaded facade is imposing, but, for me, its real claim to fame is the inscription it bears:

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

The words are taken from a longer quote by the Greek historian Herotodus, and though he was referring to “couriers” of the ancient Persian Empire, the inscription has been synonymous with America’s letter carriers since the Farley Building opened in 1914.

But those twenty-one words aren’t just synonymous with America’s letter carriers; they’re the official creed of the United States Postal Service.

Right?

Well . . . like snail mail, not so fast.

In fact, those twenty-one words are officially just an inscription and nothing more.

Again, no need for Google or Siri: Its a fact, according to the USPS.

Did you know that?

I didn’t . . . until recently, when my local post office went to “war”–it was really more of a “talk-of-the-neighborhood to-do”–with the management of my apartment complex over doggy stations located next to cluster mailboxes.

Here are a wide shot of one of the battlefields and a close-up of one of the paper shots that started the “war”:

IMG_0265IMG_0263

After a brief cease-fire, during which time the containers were regularly emptied, the paper shots flew again:

IMG_0276

The doggy stations were moved soon after, quieting the guns and ending the “war.” All hail the victorious USPS!

Thankfully, I wasn’t was one of the tenants whose snail mail became a refugee–or was it a prisoner?–during the “war.” What I took away from it all were a few irony-induced chuckles and digital proof that the USPS’s official unofficial creed is indeed a load of crap (pun intended). Thank goodness I’ve become enlightened to that fact. Otherwise, I’d still be living in snowy, rainy, hot, gloomy ignorance.

An Appetizer of Autobiographical Fiction

bulfytrLeave a comment

From THE PRECARIOUSNESS OF DONE,
the upcoming (and first) novel by Tony Houck

 

PROLOGUE

Las Rozas, Spain
March 1996

     “Eres un subnormal profundo—You are a profound retard.”
     The insult had burst through Ethan’s door just minutes into the new year, as he lay propped against his pillow, ingesting the Spanish edition of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. The abuse had cut the eighteen-year-old, but it had not surprised him, despite his host mother’s resolution to “be more maternal.” He had given her an archaic smile and gone back to reading.
     But now, three months after slumping into bed with an old fisherman at twenty-two past midnight—for Spain, quite early but not retardedly so—Ethan wasn’t smiling. Anxious, the bright yet painfully shy teenager perched on the side of the bed.
     The bunk was designed to save space: a bookcase wall bed—the convenience of a twin Murphy bed, the storage of side cabinets with adjustable shelves. The unit had been a closeout, and it rocked slightly. Thankfully, it had never fallen on anyone, but no one had ever gotten a restful night’s sleep on the “mattress” either. Ethan didn’t blame his host parents for the miserable thing, tucking him into their house-rich, cash-poor lives however they could. Nevertheless, the room was a bedroom in name only.
     It was the tiniest space in a suite of rooms with parquet floors and stark white walls that occupied part of what Spaniards call the second floor but Americans call the third floor of the latest housing development. Regardless of the floor numbering scheme used inside the building, its anemic red brick exterior lacked style and grace.
     A walkway led from the buzz-in entrance through pea green grass watered and mined by Chihuahuas and a German shepherd, and then pierced a short wall separating the private lawn from the public sidewalk. The pedestrian-friendly street was typical of those in the burgeoning yet walkable town of Las Rozas. The name meant “clearings,” and though its origin was unclear (likely agricultural, as roza in Castilian refers to a place cleared for farmland), for Ethan, Las Rozas was home.
     The exception was his host parents’ apartment. It was the place where he disagreed most with the words of his exchange studies adviser: “Differences aren’t good or bad, just different.” She hadn’t been referring to an acrimonious couple but to general cultural differences (female nudity on broadcast television, for example), and he had agreed with her, for the most part. And though dealing with an adopted culture wasn’t always as pleasurable as watching a topless woman savor a spoonful of yogurt, Ethan did so like a trouper.
     He was a child of natural parents who were quietly living married yet separate lives under the same roof, so he was ill-prepared for the matrimonio’s biting words to each other. Ethan persisted through, fearing that someone would end his studies prematurely.
     Swallowing his complaints had done him little good, though. He sat back, heeling one of two large boxes his natural mother had shipped at great expense. God bless the woman for trying to buoy his withering waistline with non-perishable tastes of home: hot sauce, spray cheese, peanut butter, Triscuits, powdered milk.
     Or on second thought, maybe the Almighty should impose a little penance on her for turning a deaf ear to Ethan’s wish that she simply wire pesetas: “so many boxes” irritated his host mother, the caretaker of a Spartan kitchen with few cabinets. Where was he to put groceries in his postage stamp-sized quarters? Certainly not in plain sight, even if he stayed. And if he got the boot, he might simply trash them, although he hated the thought of tossing out good food almost as much as leaving.
     Ethan tucked his hands underneath him and stared at his host father’s mouth: Looking a person in the eyes was an ability that often eluded the introvert.
     “What’s clearer than water is that your behavior cannot continue,” the man who ran the roost declared, arms crossed.
     The walls closed in on Ethan. “I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong,” he managed to say with a Castilian accent that would be perfect if he hung on until June.
     “Not sure what you’ve done wrong?” the man asked, palming the greasy hair stuck to his scalp.
     “Not really,” Ethan said.
     The man leaned back in his chair and laced his nicotine-stained fingers behind his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
     Ethan caught a whiff of body odor: Soccer had been on the tele, and his host father had forgone his bubbly, weekly preening.
     Even the bathroom (tub shower, toilet, bidet—an odd fixture—vanity, linen closet) was larger than Ethan’s bedroom. At night, when his window and its rackety shutter were closed because his host mother “said so,” the room was claustrophobic. Only by the light leaking in under the door, which was also to remain shut, could he see the hand in front of his face.
     “Or maybe,” the man continued, “you’re just too much of a troglodita to see it.”
     As a child of a marriage disintegrating two thousand miles away, it hadn’t taken Ethan long to puzzle out his host mother’s behavior: Standing up to the rooster who strutted around his barnyard was an ability that often eluded her, so she brooded and pecked at her host son. But her husband’s demeanor had been apparent from the very start: Reveling in his own crowing, he was just an ecumenical cock.
     “Never in my life have I seen such an odd young man,” the old bird said.
     Ethan stared at the floor, wondering if he would still have somewhere to perch come dawn. “If this is about the Krispis . . .”
     His host father laughed at him. “This is about much more than cereal.”
     “I don’t—”
     “You weren’t the only student we could have chosen, understand? Do you know what I’m telling you? There were other choices, but we chose you.”
     Ethan’s slate blue eyes watched his wristwatch tick away the afternoon.
     “Of all the teenagers in Estados Unidos, we chose the one who doesn’t like cereal.”
     “I like cereal,” Ethan assured him yet again; “what I don’t like is the taste of the milk you buy.”
     “The milk tastes fine,” the cock said.
     “Brick milk is quite different from what I’m used to.”
     “What kind do you—” The man caught himself: “That’s right; you drink milk that’s sold in bottles.”
     Ethan nodded. “It’s perishable but doesn’t taste funny, at least to—”
     “We don’t buy that kind of milk,” the cock declared. “Don’t ask me again.”
     I didn’t ask you before, Ethan wanted to insist.
     “We don’t eat Krispis. I bought and paid for them for you.”
     Ethan had little doubt that his host mother had actually done the shopping. Besides, they were compensated for his day-to-day expenses. “If I had known the Krispis were so important to you, I would have eaten them dry. I’ll eat them dry.”
     “And could you check the gas bottle before you shower every day?”
     Ethan couldn’t believe the man was harping on the butane again. “I do check it,” he said, “and I only forgot that one time . . . way back in September. I apologized—”
     “But your apology didn’t buy a full gas bottle, did it?”
     Ethan felt like a puppy that had once piddled on the rug and was having his nose rubbed in the invisible stain.
     “The wife couldn’t make dinner; Burger King doesn’t give away Whoppers and patatas fritas, understand? You’re strange but smart. I know you know what I’m saying.”
     “I understand,” Ethan said faintly, “and as I said before, my house in Bir-he-nia (Virginia) has pipe gas, not gas bottles. Without a gauge or a scale, it’s hard to judge how much is left in one of those things.”
     “Didn’t you pick it up?”
     Ethan wanted to scream. “Again, it felt about half full.”
     “But it wasn’t,” the cock said wryly.
     “No, it wasn’t. Sorry.”
     Additional rebukes and apologies lasted until the door creaked open. A woman’s voice ventured through the crack: “I’m going to mass.”
     Her husband wiped the saliva off the corner of his mouth. “Fine.”
     “And don’t forget to have the late-afternoon snack, you two.”
     “Make it before you go,” the cock said, “and I’ll eat it later.”
     “I don’t have time.”
     The man glanced at Ethan’s watch. “It’s only six fifteen, and mass doesn’t start until seven o’clock. There’s plenty of time.”
     “No, there isn’t,” the voice insisted.
     The cock left oily fingerprints as he pushed back from the table. “Why not?” he asked, swaggering forward.
     “Because I’m taking a sanity break.”
     The cock clutched the doorknob, his knuckles reddening. “So you have the time, but won’t take the time.”
     “No . . . no, I won’t.”
     “What about the café?”
     “You’ll have to make it.”
     “Why haven’t you done it?”
     “Because God frowns at sinners who are late to mass,” his wife said. “There’s yogur in the refrigerator, behind the milk.”
     Dispirited and hungry, Ethan began to push back his cuticles, tending to each finger in exactly the same way as he gazed out the window. Outside, the light was turning soft, but inside the mood was already hard. He rocked forward and watched his host mother retreat. “And there’s cereal to go with that milk,” he said, thoughtlessly trying to lighten the mood. Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.
     The cock shoved the door open and chased after his hen. The two exchanged idle threats of divorce—nothing unusual—and then the front door thudded shut. The man locked and chained it, waltzed into the kitchen, and clanged together the makings of a small pot of coffee.
     After cursing his cigarette lighter, he lit the burner with a match as gas flowed plentifully from the gas bottle on the balcony. Waiting for the water to boil, he opened a package of fairy cakes and ate one of the light, spongy cupcakes as he stood at the stove.
     Minutes later, the aroma of stovetop coffee drifted on the silence. It was followed by the sporadic tings of a glass espresso cup settling into its saucer. Another fairy cake, a warmed cup of café con leche, the return of the opened brick of milk to the refrigerator, the rustle of a new pack of cigarettes. The cock strutted out of the kitchen.
     Kneeling on the bed, Ethan banked the memory of the mountains to the north silhouetted a deep reddish-purple by the sunset. After four tugs on the belt built into the wall, he was insulated by the roller shutter from the hominess of Las Rozas. He turned to face the starkness of the situation.
     The cock stood in the doorway, legs apart, hands on hips, a lit Marlboro pinched between his lips. “I have made my decision.”

Life and Death in the Bullring

bulfytrLeave a comment

On July 9, matador Víctor Barrio was fatally gored in the chest, becoming the first Spanish torero to die in the ring since September 1985. Earlier that same year, I had first visited Spain as a high schooler and seen my first bullfight—Spain became my passion, the bullfight became my fascination.

In 1988, I returned to Spain as an exchange student in the burgeoning town of Las Rozas de Madrid. During the weeklong Fiestas de San Miguel (the Festival of Saint Michael), I attended many bullfights and ran with the bulls without incident. My passion and fascination grew.

I returned to Las Rozas in 1993 to visit my surrogate Spanish family, who introduced me to José Luis Ruiz Azañedo, a novillero (novice bullfighter) who fought under the name «Finito de Las Rozas» until his recent retirement from the ring. We became fast friends and remain so to this today despite the fact that my love for the bullfight has now mostly turned to disgust. My love for the Spain, however, remains strong.

In preparation for a book I was writing, I interviewed Finito in 1998, airmailing him a list of questions—“email? what’s email?” You may find one of his answers interesting in the wake of the death of Víctor Barrio. The original Castilian appears first (a little bit of classwork for new students of the beautiful Spanish language), and my English translation follows.

¿Cómo te sientes en el momento de matar un toro?  ¿E inmediatamente después?

Es muy complicado expresar con palabras lo que en ese momento se siente; porque cuando estás toreando existe una comunicación y un acercamiento entre el toro y el torero que es difícil de olvidar sobre todo cuando el toro es bravo y se entrega totalmente a la faena que le hace el torero, en esos momentos a la hora de colocar al toro para morir tienes que mirarle a la cara y sientes entonces el tener que matar a un toro que te ha ayudado colaborando estrechamente para el triunfo del torero, a lo largo de toda la faena.

Dependiendo de como haya sido el toro, los sentimientos del torero fluctúan entre la satisfacción de ver morir a un toro que ha luchado noblemente en la faena, la rabia si el toro no era lo que se esperaba y, en algunos casos la alegría de haberlo matado si no ha sido un buen toro para poder pensar en los siguientes.

(How do you feel at the moment of killing a bull? And immediately afterwards?

It’s very complicated to express in words what one feels in that moment because when you are fighting there exist a communication and a relationship between the bull and the torero that are difficult to forget, particularly when the bull is brave and it gives itself totally to the torero’s faena [final series of passes made with the red cape], in those moments when in comes to positioning the bull in order to kill it, you have to look it in the eyes, and you feel the need to kill a bull that has helped you, closely collaborating in the torero’s triumph throughout the faena.

Depending on how the bull has been, the torero’s feelings fluctuate between satisfaction of seeing die a bull that has fought nobly during the faena, anger if the bull wasn’t what was hoped for, and in some cases happiness of having killed it if hasn’t been a good bull in order to think about the next ones.)

The toro that killed Víctor Barrio was neither satisfied, angry, nor happy; it was simply being a fighting bull.

An Exchange Student’s Bittersweet Journey Home

bulfytrLeave a comment

I was eighteen years old and introverted. My Spanish host father was a retired porn director. My host mother had had her palm read; there was no sign of her husband in her future. My host brother was a spoiled, teenaged baby.

During my six-month stay, I had offended them in ways I still don’t understand, and they had kicked me out….

March 1989

A faded symbol on the ground outside the Puerta del Sol, a 19th-century square which is the heart of not only Madrid but Spain itself, marks Kilometer Zero of the system of national highways known as the carretera nacional. The major arteries of this network are six toll-free highways, or autovías, prefixed by “N” and numbered I to VI.

Radiating from the geographically centered capital to coastal provinces or the Portuguese border, the N-I-VI are more heavily traveled than the “R” autopistas (toll highways) they run parallel to since many Spaniards can’t afford to pay the high tolls. Anyone who has been mired in traffic hell during one of Madrid’s four rush hours knows all too well that “heavily traveled” understates things quite a bit.

The N-VI breaks out of the capital near the Mirador del Faro observation tower and passes through Ciudad Universitaria on its way to the suburbs and the northwestern port city of A Coruña. At Kilometer 18 along that major artery lies the burgeoning municipality of Las Rozas. Its proximity to the capital, which was on the front line during the Civil War that began in 1936, explains why the town stood in ruins when the war ended in 1939. The fact that it straddles the N-VI only twenty minutes from Madrid is an important reason why it and los roceños (the people of Las Rozas) flourish today.

Roceños are among the countless nicotine-addicted suburbanites with a penchant for the honking of an automobile horn who each weekday morning form a creeping Madrid-bound caravan. Even with five of the N-VI’s eight lanes, including its two center reversible HOV lanes, or carriles de Bus-VAO, open to inbound traffic, commuters making the 15-kilometer trek to the capital may be stuck in traffic for an hour or more. No wonder so many of them smoke.

As I taxied alone from Las Rozas to Madrid’s Barajas Airport, which lies almost 15 kilometers to the east of the Puerta del Sol, I became fixated on the growing total on the running meter and the blinking colon on the dashboard clock. It wasn’t long after we had been “parked” on the N-VI that I began to place mental bets on which would be gone first—the pesetas in my wallet or my mid-morning flight to New York. The woman in the maroon Volkswagon Polo to my left and her young backpack-toting passenger appeared to be on their way to a colegio (primary or secondary school) somewhere near Madrid. I just knew that little girl would be late for school, and I was quite sure that eventually I would be standing in the international terminal staring at an empty gate.

To my surprise and relief we made it to our exit in about thirty minutes and merged on to the outer carretera de circunvalación (ring highway) encircling the capital that provides access to the airport. Racing—well, it felt like racing, at least compared to the crawling of the last half hour—towards Barajas with that slowly moving parking lot behind me I whispered a long-distance thank-you to the upstairs neighbor who had called for my taxi just a few minutes early. About an hour after I got into the cab I stepped out of it, and after more waiting at the ticket counter, passport control, and security, I boarded the plane and was in my seat. I hoped that schoolgirl was in hers, too.

The Unbeaten Path and Your Overtested Schoolchild

bulfytrLeave a comment

My son will be graduating from high school in May and then heading off to lapidary arts school—cabochons, casting, faceting, mineral ID, opals, silver. For the past twelve years, he has been standardized tested to the point of ridiculousness. In celebration of his upcoming release, here’s the quote that, along with CBS’s The Amazing Race, has fueled our spirit of adventure these past summers:

“We must go beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey.” — John Hope Franklin

Many of the places we’ve gone in the U.S. are popular tourist attractions: Denali National Park (AK), Gatlinburg (TN), Lake George (NY), Rehoboth Beach (DE) to name a few. But we always get off the beaten path. Here, I post some of our favorite, lesser-known places and activities. I hope they inspire you to explore the United States, and am happy to answer questions about them.

(Note: I/we have no affiliations with the following places and activities, and quoted material is taken from their websites.)
 

Arnolds Park Amusement Park (Lake Okoboji, Iowa)
https://www.arnoldspark.com/
Rides, raceway, cruises on the steamer Queen II, maritime museum, concerts, food, games, shopping, pebble beach, chilly lake
 

Bushkill Falls (Bushkill, Pennsylvania)
http://www.visitbushkillfalls.com/
“The Niagara of Pennsylvania”…scenic trails, gift shops, gem mining, miniature golf, paddle boats, fishing, picnic areas, children’s playground

P1010859
 

Cape Henlopen State Park (Lewes, Delaware)
http://www.destateparks.com/park/cape-henlopen/
Beaches, disc golf course, historic Fort Miles, hiking, biking, nature center

P1010882
 

Carolina Motel (Franklin, North Carolina)
http://www.carolinamotel.com/
Hands down, our favorite home away from home, anywhere—super clean, friendly, and affordable

P1010997
 

Dry Falls (near Highlands, North Carolina)
http://highlandschamber.org/
A kid-friendly waterfall you can walk behind, but the spray won’t keep you “dry”

P1020180
 

Exit Glacier (Seward, Alaska)
http://www.alaska.org/detail/visit-exit-glacier
A road-accessible glacier with a nature center, trails, and ranger-led hikes

004_4
 

Franklin Gem & Mineral Museum (Franklin, North Carolina)
http://www.fgmm.org/
Located in the old jail, eight rooms housing one of the largest collections of gems and minerals in the Southeast (don’t miss the Coca-Cola gems), gift shop
 

Funland (Rehoboth Beach, Delaware)
https://www.funlandrehoboth.com/
“Family business since 1962″…rides for all ages, food, games, prizes

P1020684
 

Great Smoky Arts & Crafts Community (near Gatlinburg, Tennessee)
http://www.gatlinburgcrafts.com/
“The largest group of independent artisans in North America. This historic 8-mile loop has been designated a Tennessee Heritage Arts & Crafts Trail.”
 

The stretch between marker R-39 and Indian Creek (on Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia)
http://www.smithmountainstriperclub.com/
The first and only place I’ve ever caught a striped bass on artificial bait—a white bucktail

IMG025
 

Martin Guitar Museum and Factory Tour (Nazareth, Pennsylvania)
https://www.martinguitar.com/about/visit-us/

P1020559
 

Motel Nord Haven (Healy, Alaska)
http://www.motelnordhaven.com/
Clean and cozy lodging 15 minutes from the tourist traps near the Denali National Park entrance

P1050781
 

Mountain Springs Lake Resort (Reeders, Pennsylvania)
http://www.mslresort.com/
A hidden gem in the Poconos (when I stopped to asked directions, no local had ever heard of it)…nature trail, beaches, fishing, playgrounds, Ping-Pong barn, cottages, a bit of a property management feel but quaint and quiet

P1020619
 

Mt. Washington Auto Road (Gorham, New Hampshire)
http://mtwashingtonautoroad.com/
“Completed and opened to the public in 1861, the privately-owned and operated Auto Road climbs 4,700 feet from the base and reaches more than a mile in the sky to the highest point in the Northeast at 6,288 feet.” The drive is not for the faint of heart.

P1010047
 

Natural Stone Bridge and Caves (Pottersville, New York)
http://stonebridgeandcaves.com/
62′-high, 180′-wide stone bridge arch, self-guided tours, rock and gift shops, gem mining, disc golf

P1030379
 

Pemi Valley Moose Tours (Lincoln, New Hampshire)
http://www.moosetoursnh.com/
3-hour tour—air conditioned bus, main roads through the White Mountains, one potty stop, moose, deer, a bear or two
 

Quiet Valley Living Historical Farm (Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania)
http://quietvalley.org/
“Quiet Valley Living Historical Farm, is a non-profit, living history museum preserving 19th century Pennsylvania German agricultural heritage. Period dressed interpreters portray descendants of Johann Depper, re-enacting daily life on the farm.”

P1030249
 

Roaring Fork Motor Nature Trail (near Gatlinburg, Tennessee)
http://www.nps.gov/grsm/planyourvisit/roaringfork.htm
Narrow, winding, scenic; saw eight bears one early August evening
 

Rose Creek Mine (Franklin, North Carolina)
http://www.rosecreekmine.com/
Undoubtedly, our favorite family activity. Bring rubber gloves, a change of clothing and shoes, and a chair pad or towel to soften your seat on the sluice bench.

P1000858
 

Schooner Eastwind (Boothbay Harbor, Maine)
http://schoonereastwind.com/
Built by hand by a family that has sailed around the world twice

P1010191
 

Sled Dog Kennels and Demonstrations (Denali National Park, Alaska)
http://www.nps.gov/dena/planyourvisit/kennels.htm
http://www.nps.gov/dena/planyourvisit/sled-dog-demonstrations.htm

077_77
 

Zoder’s Inn and Suites (Gatlinburg, Tennessee)
http://www.zoders.com/
“Its Main Street location puts guests within walking distance to the town’s restaurants, galleries and shops, while its wooded six-acre setting offers just the right amount of privacy and seclusion.” I’m 45 and may have been conceived at Zoder’s.

P1030548

The Importance of Classrooms with Four Walls and Blue Skies

bulfytrLeave a comment

In honor of the rockhound/fireball/breadwinner I call my wife, I post her 2011 application for the summer Naturalist Internship at the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center. Admittedly, it was a long shot, and she didn’t get an interview. No big surprise: she’s a school teacher through and through.

Last fall, she interviewed with a better (my word) school division—“Fish grow to the size of their tank.”

Success. Time for a new tank….

“Why are you interested in this internship and what personal skills would you bring to this program?

For honesty’s sake I must confess that I still hear the call of Alaska, and I make no apologies for refusing to check the 49th state off my bucket list. No, I won’t do it. The scale and wild beauty of Denali and Kenai Fjords National Parks each require at least a third visit; I still haven’t spotted any whales at Beluga Point. And since we all need more beauty in our lives and to do more things that take our breath away, I’ll have to drive along Turnagain Arm as many more times as possible. On second thought, I’ll let my husband drive so I can get lost in the views.

That’s what we were doing last July when my mother-in-law spotted a cluster of white dots on the side of a mountain, so we found a safe place to pull off, and my husband, son, and I hoofed it back to take so-so photos and shaky video of what turned out to be a band of Dall sheep. Little did we know that two ewes were grazing on the cliff above our car, putting on quite a show for my mother-in-law while we were gone. One disappeared before we got back, but the other one, apparently indifferent to the gathering tourists, paced the cliff for ten more minutes.

Except for an arctic ground squirrel that, unfortunately, had become habituated to humans at Polychrome Overlook, I had never had such an up-close sighting of Alaskan wildlife. Yes, the views of Turnagain Arm were breathtaking, but what I remember most about the drive was that chance encounter.

What I remember most about the day, however, was my first visit to AWCC.

While most of the species on Alaska’s admittedly small endangered list are marine species, the memories I cherish most about my visit—Seymour Jr. [moose] browsing at the fence, Hugo [female grizzly] seeming to pose for the camera, Joe Boxer and Patron [male grizzlies] chasing gulls—wouldn’t have been possible if Alaska’s terrestrial species didn’t need a helping hand, too. Chance encounters with wildlife, whether by tourists or residents, are memorable but rarely provide the teachable moments that the close-up yet respectful observations of the animals at AWCC do.

As I watched a member of the staff engaging and educating a group of children about the porcupine, I was intrigued by the possibility of volunteering my 15+ years of experience as an elementary school teacher to help AWCC fulfill its mission, and upon returning to Virginia my intrigue lead to discussions and ultimately this application for internship. Accruing some of the 180 professional development points I need for licensure renewal would be icing on the cake.

I am confident that in addition to my enthusiasm for education, my strong work ethic, and my facility as a jill-of-all-trades, AWCC would be able to avail itself of my experience planning and executing field trips, graduation ceremonies, and community presentations and of my skills as a former technology teacher, including creating and running PowerPoint presentations.

What are your personal, educational, or career goals? What kinds of experiences would you like to gain during your internship to further your pursuit of these goals?

During my first year of teaching my mother-in-law gave me a plaque that reads: ‘A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove … but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.’ — Forest E. Witcraft

The quote is a good one and absolutely true…or at least this senior teacher hopes it’s true because the balance in my savings account is stagnating, my house might need a new roof, my car is almost ten years old, and after chasing after 16 at-risk four-year-olds each day there’s no way I’m going to be alive in a hundred years to find out how the children I’ve taught have changed the world.

I have worn many hats at [name omitted]—Early Childhood Special Education Teacher, Virginia Preschool Initiative Teacher, Technology Teacher, and again Virginia Preschool Initiative Teacher when the technology position was eliminated last year due to Virginia’s budget shortfall. Each new challenge has helped me to grow not only as a teacher but as a person as well. Admittedly, I will never be a perfect teacher or person, but I firmly intend to continue striving to be a better teacher and person and to keep exploring and learning in order to become a more complete teacher and a more well-rounded person.

Professionally, my time in Mother Nature’s classroom at AWCC would provide me with a wealth of new ideas to take back to my classroom and to share with my fellow teachers so that we can inject our lesson plans and the students’ daily activities with as much creativity as Virginia’s Standards of Learning allow.

And on a personal level, stepping outside my comfort zone and getting my literal and figurative hands dirty in something other than Virginia’s red clay would be a wonderful challenge, and if my summer in Alaska were to have the same positive effect on me that my husband’s time in Spain as an exchange student had on him, I cannot miss this opportunity, no matter how atypical my candidacy for this internship.

What is the best public presentation you have done? Describe why it was your best.

“The Virginia Preschool Initiative provides programs for at-risk four-year-old children that include quality preschool education, health services, social services, parental involvement, and transportation” (www.doe.virginia.gov), and in my classroom we use the HighScope Preschool Curriculum. The central element of HighScope is active learning, a hands-on approach to education in which children learn by participation and through direct experiences with objects, events, and ideas. The curriculum is taught at many institutions of higher learning, including my local community college, but finding classrooms that follow HighScope can be a challenge.

Taking advantage of a local HighScope resource, a professor of education at [name omitted] invited me to speak to one of his evening classes. My presentation included photographs, video clips, and printed materials and a PowerPoint presentation that I had created. The students’ interest was high during and after my presentation, and with my principal’s prior permission I invited them to visit my class the next day for some real-world practice with the curriculum. Many of the students who spent time in my classroom wrote to thank me for the “practical” and “educational” experience and for the opportunity to affirm—and in one case to doubt—their course of study. I have made countless presentations, including others at [name omitted], but I am most proud of that one because of the students’ interest and feedback and the article about it that appeared in the local newspaper.

Describe a situation where you really went above and beyond in the name of customer service. OR Describe a situation where you effectively dealt with a disgruntled customer/visitor/co-worker.

A teacher’s work is truly never done, and often going “above and beyond” is more a necessity than a reason for being patted on the back. We buy paper and pencils, for example, for students who cannot afford them because without them, they cannot do their jobs as students, we cannot do our jobs as teachers, and both of our performances suffer. For similar reasons, we stay late, make home visits, and spend even more extra time when they’re having problems. Going “above and beyond” can be tremendously rewarding. It can also be a bit of a nightmare, as it was on an occasion during my first stint as Virginia Preschool Initiative Teacher.

One of my students presented severe behavioral and cognitive delays, so I worked on special activities with him before and after school, sent activities home with him, but even with the extra help he continued to disrupt the classroom and to struggle. As a former special education teacher I knew the importance of early intervention, and I requested a parent-teacher conference to discuss the possibility of referring the child for testing.

The conference began by the father bursting through my door, cursing at me, and threatening to do me physical harm if I insisted that his son was retarded. Keeping my wits about me, I turned slightly sideways to lessen the face-to-face/confrontational mood and began calming him down by rephrasing what he had said so he would know that I was listening to him and that I understood his concerns. I then explained that special education services range from tutoring to a self-contained classroom and that he could decline services after testing even if his son was found eligible.

A month later the child was tested, found eligible, and began receiving in-school tutoring. He is now in third grade and studying on a third grade level. The father recently thanked me for my help and apologized for his behavior.

I am proud of the difference I made in the life of that child.”