Lift Up Your Hearts!

So who is Celia Nicklin?  Beats me, but she is responsible for my getting up before five o'clock this morning.

Until I awoke to the sound of an oboe.  Somewhere in the middle of the piece there's a long oboe solo—so long that I wondered if I'd slept through the whole symphony and we were now on to some oboe concerto.  Perhaps it was the sound of the oboe that aroused me; what kept me awake was the quality.  It was gorgeous!  Smooth, flowing, light tone, with none of the harshness I've come to associate with the European oboe style.  Unbelievably gentle phrase endings, even on high notes.  The music itself was actually rather uninspiring, but I couldn't stop listening to the way it was played.  London orchestra or not, I was sure the soloist had to be an American, or at least American-trained, and was probably someone I'd heard of.

In both the Marginal Revolution post, Don't smile too much, and the original New York Times' TierneyLab post, Solved:  The Mystery of the Miserable Models, and their attendant comments, are some enlightening observations on why not smiling is associated with higher class, quality, expense, power, and dominance.  Sad commentary as that is, it fits in with two other experiences that have come to mind recently.

When my mother worked as a teacher's aide in an elemenary school, she tried to call attention to the plight of a small child of Asian origin who was being harrassed by the other students.  The teacher would not take her seriously, because in her view the boy must be happy, since he was smiling all the time.  My mother—correctly, I'm sure—interpreted those smiles as cringing deference, masking fear.

I was talking with a British friend, who lives in France, and his observation was that many Europeans view a person who smiles at strangers as either mentally unbalanced or a prostitute!

Having so recently read Meic Pearse's analysis of Western anticulture, I can't help seeing a connection between a meaningless culture of consumption and entertainment, such as pervades Europe, Canada, the United States, and other places with a great "Western" influence, and the loss of smiling, innocent happiness.  (Not to say that this anticulture is common amongst "real people" in any country; but to many, what is rampant in Hollywood, the news media, and academia is perceived as reality, and may indeed be becoming so.)

Why the Rest Hates the West:  Understanding the Roots of Global Rage, by Meic Pearse (Intervarsity Press, Downers Grove, Illinois, 2004)

This is not a book review; not yet.  I long to write about Meic Pearse's book, but it deserves a detailed and extensive review which I cannot at the moment accomplish.  Rather than wait entirely until I can put in the requisite time and effort, however, I'm posting this placeholder, because this is an incredibly valuable book!  Its somewhat unfortunate title calls to mind the hand-wringing post-9/11 whine, "Why do they hate us?" but Why the Rest Hates the West is a serious, insightful analysis of the chasm between modern Western culture—more precisely, "anti-culture"—and the rest of the world that no one with more than a few years left on this earth can afford to ignore.

Find the book!  Read it!  Then come back here and tell me what you think.

Tonight I had some mushrooms to use up, and created a dish that Porter really, really liked.  (So did I, for that matter.)  So I'm writing it down, as best I can, in hopes of being able to repeat it.  Since it was all spur-of-the-moment and I didn't measure anything, all quantities and even the directions are approximate.

Janet has a remarkable memory for faces, especially if seen in a dramatic/musical context.  I'll never forget when she was 13 years old, and immediately recognized the new high school chorus intern years after seeing him perform—in a video, on a small-screen television, in a non-speaking part—in a college opera production.

A friend is looking forward to raising chickens, and on her blog mentioned her plans for acquiring buff orpingtons.  "Buff orpingtons"?  I know nothing about chickens other than a few good recipes, but as soon as I read her page I remembered the only other place I'd heard the term:  Dorothy Sayer's Busman's Honeymoon.  They play no role at all in the mystery, so there's no reason in particular I should have remembered them.

Last night we attended a Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra concert.  The first work was a beautiful modern piece called Musica Celestis, written by Aaron Jay Kernis; the last, Beethoven's Third Symphony.  In between we heard Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo Theme, featuring a cellist born in 1980 playing a cello born in 1790.  Both were delightful.  The cello was a Lorenzo Ventapane; the musician Julie Albers.

I recognized her name as soon as I saw it.  But why?  My first thoughts went down the logical trail of someone Janet knew at Eastman, but reading her biography squashed that idea.  When I learned she was from Longmont, Colorado, however, the mystery was solved.

Many years ago I discovered a book, by Robert Leland Johnson, called Super Babies.  It is the story of the first few years in the life of his son, Anthony—once a sickly, premature infant, now an MIT graduate.  At the very end of the book (1979), Anthony begins to take Suzuki violin lessons.  This morning I pulled the book off my shelves and quickly confirmed that his teacher had been a woman named Ellie Albers, of Longmont, Colorado.  Can anyone doubt my conclusion that Julie is her daughter?

I figured out why I am so impatient with sermons and generally find them the least important part of the church service:  I'm definitely a print person.  I'd rather read a story than hear it, and find written arguments more persuasive than spoken ones.  Still, I can't resist posting this homeschooler's speech, which Janet found.  The only quarrel I'd make with him is over his statement that community colleges provide "high level education."  Otherwise, he gives a good speech on the basic advantages of home education and counters some of the popular objections.

Everyone wants to "fix" our educational system.  But as long as most people have no choice over which school they attend, which teachers they sit under, and what they study, the system as a whole cannot be fixed.  At best we will continue to have an education lottery, because as long as schools are where people go to be taught, rather than to learn, everything depends on the teachers.

(I could add another reason for disenchantment with science fairs, and that is obvious ignorance and prejudice on the part of the judges.  How frequent a failing this is I don't know; I suspect it's less common at the high school level.  But I know I lost my interest in encouraging our children to participate when a project that showed genuine mathematical inquiry and insight was passed over in favor of those which showed neatlly-graphed results of surveys of such things as classmates' snack food preferences.  Had the victim of this injustice not been my own child, I would have felt qualified to register a formal complaint.  As it was, I merely concluded that the judges either had no idea what mathematics is (not unlikely, at that level), or else disqualified the work on the basis that it could not possibly have been done by a first grader (she had had no chance to defend herself; her own teachers knew it was her work, but this was at the county level).  In any case, science fairs lost their luster for us at that point.)

Although not admitted directly, the article also holds the greatest clue to the puzzle:  so much depends on the teacher.

Not the same one as these people, certainly.

Thinking it was from someone else, I followed Erica's link in her comment on Heather and Jon's blog, which eventually led me to this supposedly funny story about the differences between the way men and women prepare dinner.  I realize it's intended to be hyperbolic, but there's enough seriousness in the post and responses to make me believe there's another world out there that has nothing to do with anyone I know.

First of all, who brought this man up that he is surprised to learn that it's rude to ask someone to make you (and some friends) dinner (big faux pas), then call her up an hour before mealtime to tell her you've eaten a big lunch and aren't hungry, so she needn't bother cooking (enormously huge faux pas)?  C'mon—there can't really be anyone so clueless on the planet, can there?

Secondly, the characterization of a man's approach to a meal might have been credible 50 years ago, though even for that time I have my doubts.  In any case, many of the men I know are good cooks who frequently exercise their talents, and the rest can do so in a pinch.  Sure, we all—male and female—have been known to "just grab something" when feeding only ourselves.  But for guests?

Nor is his picture of a woman preparing a meal much more reasonable, though at least it helps him grasp the idea that planning and work are involved.  But no one I know, of any sex, prepares meals that way—even allowng for the hyperbole—except for very special occasions.

Not being able to respond on the blogs I encountered while discovering this other planet, I resort to venting on my own forum.  Do YOU know people like this?

I found this gem reading MacDonald's story, The Portent.  Not profound, but there are several readers of this blog who will appreciate it.

[part of a dialogue between a student and his tutor] 

I suppose I should throw out my Peter Pan peanut butter.

Having read about the recall, I quietly scoffed at the paranoia of those who recommended getting rid of all peanut butter, as if the net of the "2111" product code weren't wide enough.  And all this fuss when no actual contamination has (yet) been found in the product—just a statistical link.

But just for fun, I looked at the product code on my jar, and lo and behold, it begins with the Number of the Peanut Butter Beast.

The Well-Educated Mind, by Susan Wise Bauer (W W Norton & Co, NY 2003)

The Well-Educated Mind reminds me of Mortimer Adler's How to Read a Book, only it's less intimidating. In a time when most people who can read, don't, and in which teachers are thrilled if their students read anything at all, no matter how worthless or even harmful, it's sobering to be reminded that—avid reader as I am—there is a world of reading far beyond the level of attention I bring to a book. My palate can distinquish between a white wine and a red, and can distinguish each from kerosene, but the sophisticated analysis of even a moderate expert is beyond by attainment. Susan Wise Bauer encourages me to believe it is not beyond my reach, however.

This may be what those annoying English teachers were trying so unsuccessfully to convey when they sucked all the fun out of a book by their analysis. If so, I missed the point altogether, because Bauer's approach—which incorporates historical, social, and literary context along with what amounts to a serious paying attention to what one reads—is both challenging and intriguing. In reality, I have to admit my list of books to read once, let alone three times with note-taking, is intimidating as it is. Still, I've already gained just by reading this book. (Once only, and even so not quite all of the extensive readings section before I had to return it to the library.)

Like The Well-Trained Mind, The Well-Educated Mind would be worthwhile for the extensive list (with summaries) of recommended reading alone.

In Pittsburgh it can be faster to take the bus to the airport than to drive, because there are special bus-only lanes that sneer at rush hour traffic.  Not so in Orlando, where the trip takes 45 minutes by car and more than twice that by bus.  Today was actually my first venture onto Orlando's public transportation system (such as it is), if you don't count the downtown freebie Lymmo service (which actually counts for quite a lot; it's pretty handy).  Anyway, I ventured from home to the airport and thence to a Thai restaurant where we met some friends for dinner, just for the experience.

The driver was friendly and helpful, the cost only $1.50 ($3.50 buys a pass good for unlimited trips in one day), and the bus itself was fine.  But the total time—walking from our house to the bus stop (35 minutes), waiting for the bus (20 minutes), and stopping at nearly every one of the multitude of stops on the way to the airport (100 minutes)—made for a long afternoon. Still, I proved it's possible to get to the airport without benefit of car, at least if one doesn't have too much in the way of baggage.

When I read the story of Melissa Busekros, I wonder anew why some people are so anxious to subject our country to the authority of international governing bodies.  Fifteen-year-old Melissa was ripped from her home by German police, committed to a mental hospital, and placed in state custody, all because her parents, concerned that the chaotic environment of her school had contributed to her failure in two subjects, chose to have her tutored at home the next year.  She was (and apparently still is) cut off from contact with her parents and siblings, with the excuse that she is suffering from "school phobia" and contact with her family would exacerbate the problem.

When I speak against compuslory education in the United States I am told that the state needs to have ultimate authority because you can't trust some parents to do what's best for their children.  Similarly, the drive for international governance is fueled by good intentions, in the hope of replacing barbaric practices with civilized behavior.  The consequences, however, depend on who gets to define "barbaric" and "civilized."

I acknowledge that some parents are abusive, and some are ignorant.  The risk is real in allowing families to be free.  But the collective wisdom of even the most democratic government can also be ignorant and abusive, and by virtue of its scope can do much more damage.  As one moves from local, to regional, to national, to international, personal involvement is diminished at every level, and with it the chance of the humanizing mediation of love.

Yesterday's visit to the art museum set me thinking.  The featured exhibit was quilts from the Gee's Bend community, set alongside and accorded the same respect as works in the museum's exhibit of modern abstract art.  Analysts found many similarities between the creations of an isolated, impoverished community and those of the high-brow professional artists.

Folk art, and folk music, grow out of the real lives of ordinary, untrained people.  That the experts, the professionals, can find much of value and sophistication in these genres reveals a foundational truth:  not that the work of untrained amateurs is as good as that of those who have studied hard and practiced long, but that there are no ordinary people.  Each person, being made in the image of God, has within him both the divine creativity and the access to reality that make art important.

The Orlando Museum of Art offers free admission to locals on Thursday afternoons, so today we paid them a visit.

I haven't read A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder—How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and On-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place.  But for the mood I'm in now, maybe I should.  I can tell from the summaries and reviews that the authors have an interesting and most likely valid point, from which those of us on the losing side of the battle with entropy can take comfort.

However, at the moment my cluttered office and decidedly disorganized desk are not making the world a better place; not my world, anyway.  So I plan to treat myself tomorrow to some personal time (i.e. I'm going to try hard to carve out a non-interruptible hour) for combing some of the tangles out of my life.  Maybe it will take my mind off the fact that the new SD card I bought for my camera isn't working and I think it's the camera's problem because it works in my computer and I have an e-mail request for help in the works with Kodak but in the meantime I can't help being a bit annoyed and consequently grumpy.  Which may be why the mess is suddenly annoying.  Then again, I'm that way in other areas:  The length of my hair can go from "no problem" to "I MUST get a haircut NOW!" overnight....

On Monday we attended the latest concert in the Orlando Philharmonic's Focus Series:  The Great Struass Dynasty.   I love that series because it features a smaller orchestra in a more intimate venue, the 300-seat Margeson Theatre. In our seats, we feel as if we could be part of the second violin section; that the sound is not well balanced there is more than made up for by the more direct experience.

This night we heard music from four members of Vienna's great Strauss dynasty:  Johann Sr., Johann Jr., Josef, and Eduard.  I'm embarrassed to say I've never cared much for their music, especially the waltzes, but this concert was great!  For one thing, the musicians appeared to be enjoying themselves, and it was impossible not to laugh at Carl Rendek's antics.  Imagine what such a fun-loving guy could do with such titles as Fireman's Polka, On Hunting, Chinese Galop, and ClearTrack Polka, all without detracting from the music, and you'll get the picture.  Is it true percussionists have more fun (even if they're not blond)?

The Story of the World: History for the Classical Child.  Volume 3:  Early Modern Times, by Susan Wise Bauer (Peace Hill Press, Charles City, Virginia, 2004)

Once a homeschooler, always a homeschooler.  Sometimes I can't help checking out the curriculum explosion that has taken place since the younger days of our own home education experiences.  As one might expect, some is awful, some great, and much in between.

Because it is impossible—maybe even undesirable—to avoid bias in a history book, it is best to have a multi-sourced approach to history.  I wouldn't use Bauer's book as my only text.  It seems reasonably broad and fair to me, but even so, you can't put everything into an elementary school level book.

I chose this particular volume because the time period corresponded with a Teaching Company series we recently watched.  (I'll put in a link to the review when I get around to writing it.) Given that the latter was designed for college students, I'll have to say I was pleased with the level of agreement between the two on areas where they overlapped.  (The Teaching Company course dealt mainly with Europe, while Bauer's touches on many other parts of the world as well.)

I did spot two errors:  confusion of malaria and yellow fever in a discussion of the Haitian Revolt, and the implication that Napoleon's remains are still buried on St. Helena.  Of course there may be plenty of errors I missed in my ignorance.  But we found errors in our favorite math series, too.  This only reinforces the need for multiple sources.

My biggest complaint is the somewhat condescending tone—you know how people tend to sound when speaking to children!—that initially put me off.  However, it improved as I went further into the book, and I also learned not to let it bother me.

Overall, I was very impressed.  I learned many things myself, and plan to read the rest of the series.  It presents a great overview in story form, not a be-all and end-all when-you've-read-this-you'll-know-history, but one that plants seeds of interest to be watered and weeded with other materials.  Even so, if all an elementary school student learned was what is in this book, he'd be far ahead of almost any modern sixth grader.