That Baseball Sound

I think the world's greatest sound must be the smack of leather when a baseball is caught in a glove after a solid "spring-is-here" kind of throw. The only sound that might compete is the crack of said baseball when it connects with the wood of a bat for a solid "spring-is-here" kind of hit.

Of course, there is also the sound of frogs singing, which I just heard today for the first time. Not to mention the sound of kids yelling - which, for some, can only be appreciated in early spring.

And in a non-seasonal way there's the sound of a printer printing off your final draft, and the sound of sizzling in a frying pan, and the sound of footsteps on the porch when you're expecting a friend.

But the sound of the ball in the glove, at least today, wins first prize in my book. It captures the idea of excellence which makes baseball so inspiring. It recalls memories of happy summers, and holds the promise of good things to come. It evokes that peculiar smell of a warm day that can so easily be forgotten in the winter months.

They make CDs of Mozart with ocean waves in the background. I'm waiting for the one of Gershwin with "playing catch" in the background.

Newport Newsbrief

Bethany and I just returned from a most enjoyable excursion to Newport. Here are some observations on that esteemed RI city:

One should have an all terrain vehicle if possible. The streets are filled with character in the form of bricks that ripple peculiarly, probably in imitation of the ocean. It makes for adventurous driving.

Colonial houses and huge mansions mean incredibly scenic driving, making the trip worth-while even if the museum you had intended to visit happens to be closed on Mondays (contrary to the sign at the door).

The ocean is not marred by a rainy day. While blue sky and blue water can be stunning, gray sky and gray choppy water, complete with white caps, can be even more stunning in a raw power kind of way.

If possible, bring super-hero music for the stunt driving you will have to pull to maneuver the one-way streets, and for the moments when you realize you are in the right turn only lane when you want to go left.

Another tip: drink tea with honey before you go so your voice will be in perfect shape for the involuntary howl of joy and awe that occurs when you turn a corner and see the entire Atlantic in front of you when you least expected it.

Getting all turned around in the traffic patterns is fine when you're in the mood for an adventure. You may happen upon amazing places.

The smell of sawdust can be inspiring in such a place as the IYRS building. It means beauty is being created around you.

And lastly, try to bring a good friend. The enjoyment of the day is greatly enhanced that way.

Happy Easter!

This morning I received an Easter card from Uncle Paul and Aunt Laura with this poem by Helen Steiner Rice on the front:

If we could just

Lift up our hearts

Like flowers to the sun

And trust

His Easter promise

And pray,
"Thy will be done,"

We'd find the peace

we're seeking,

The kind no man can give -

The peace that comes

from knowing

He died

So we might live!

I thought about what the poet meant by "His Easter promise." It means the promise of eternal life, and salvation from hell. But also it's the promise of His love, and His eternal plan that led to His death and resurrection. Everything we believe and everything that gives purpose to life is wrapped up in that Easter promise. And in light of this, my response to the One who loves us and has a perfect plan is: "Thy will be done."

Pupils and Career Options

I was sitting here reading an Agatha Christie story when Melissa decided to check for a new Strongbad e-mail. Suddenly a man's voice broke the silence of the room, and my mystery-filled brain leapt about forty feet into the air from sheer terror. The only outward manifestations of this were the fact that my foot twitched, and I'm pretty sure my pupils dilated. I'm not positive of this, of course, but something weird happened in my eye, and that was how I described it to Melissa.

This reminded me of the fact that it was only a couple of months ago that I found out dilate means to get bigger. I always thought dilated pupils got smaller. As I remarked at the time, it's a good thing I'm not a police man. "Oh boy, you sure aren't on drugs... Your pupils are huge!"

The other reason I'm glad I'm not a police man is that it would mean always getting stuck behind wicked slow people who would go under the speed limit in front me in an attempt to prove that they are law abiding. I think policemen must get so frustrated with that.

So the list of possible careers grows slightly smaller.

Date Crises

Does this ever happen to anyone else? I look at the date, and think, hm March 25. That sounds important. Isn't that something? Somebody's birthday? A date in Kingdom history?

This tendency came to light in a marked way while Lindsay and I worked on Amy's one-a-day calendar. I didn't want to put some trivial thing on a day of importance, so whenever a day sounded like something I'd double check with Lindsay. Soon it became a joke. One of us would say "November 16th. That sounds important. Isn't that Remove the Covering Day?!" Every day of importance became possible-remove-the-covering day. So of course, on real Remove the Covering Day (April 14) I did a special page commemorating the date.

I think this paranoia about forgetting a date may have been accelerated by the traumatic event of actually forgetting a dear friend's birthday. In fact, I didn't even remember I'd forgotten until about the next year. My friend is a gracious person, and found it in her heart to forgive me. But still there remains the horror of the idea that it could happen again. The disorganized and forgetful brain can be a fearful thing.

Alter-Egos

Today, on a lovely walk with Bethany (at a much brisker pace than I had anticipated - very invigorating), I realized that I have warring factions in my psyche. We passed some goats, and I expressed my attraction for the farmer's life. So simple, so basic, so wholesome. And so hard.

Disillusioned with this "hard" aspect, I moved on to a soliloquy about being a high-powered business woman with high heels and a briefcase and a high-class cup of coffee.

This reminded me of the time I was sitting in Dr. Barbour's American Lit class and he was talking about Hawthorne's idea that the best man could expect was "troubled joy." I agreed wholeheartedly. And then I remembered how I am one of those I-love-life, optimistic people.

Apparently I have a little more time to spend in the formative years.

The Unknown

Well Friends, the news that I have been awaiting for months finally arrived today. I was not accepted at Brown. For some reason I am not very upset, though. For one thing, my expectations were not very high - Danny was one of 10 students accepted. For another thing, Danny's report of what he found when he got there was very negative. Also, I now have scholarship money that I can legally pocket instead of putting toward tuition (unexpected money is nice...). And I can now do the Girls' Week as planned. And lastly, my future is WIDE open. I could technically do anything. It's kind of exciting and kind of scary. I am tentatively planning on teaching at a private school in the RI area, but who knows? Maybe I'll take my extra scholarship money and tour Europe! Most of all I can rest in the assurance that this is part of God's plan for me. I know He has something else in mind. And I'd much rather do His thing that sit in some ultra-liberal classroom anyway. So off I go into the wild blue yonder!

St. Patrick's Day

This morning Dr. Lynch asked me if I was wearing green socks. I was confused. Was something green stuck to the back of my shoe or something? And how odd that my professor was commenting on my choice of socks. Then I realized it is St. Patrick's Day. And it was the beginning of my realization that people at PC take St. Patrick's Day very seriously. I don't know why it has taken four years to realize this, but there you have it.

I heard bagpipe music emanating from two separate dorms (a little cultural confusion, perhaps?), and the Riverdance soundtrack from a third. I saw green clothing everywhere, from the more conservative forest green shirt to the bright green shirt with bright green top hat bursting with shamrocks.

And the air of Providence did its best to celebrate by warming up several degrees! I was actually outside without a coat on.

Also, the luck of the Irish seemed to be thriving, as my poorly studied for exam went very well, and my poorly practiced for organ lesson was one of the better I've had.

So hurrah for St. Patrick, and his fabulous work in Ireland, and his giving us a fabulous reason to celebrate over here. (And yes, I'm intentionally not dwelling on the college's favorite way to celebrate...)

To Be Read with Kindness

I was starting to write a post about the inconvenience of blogger.com not having a spell check option for new posts when I looked up and saw the familiar symbol with a check mark and an ABC. After the cliched start of surprise, I resumed writing along a slightly different line: a chronicle of a few recent, potentially embarrassing moments in my life. This is by no means a complete list.

First of all, I have written seven posts via the following method: Write the post, copy and paste it into Word, run spell check, and go back and forth between Word and the post, fixing it error by error.

Secondly, it became real to me this past weekend that Paul talks about "kicking against the goads" as opposed to "kicking against the gourds." That did seem like a rather odd expression.

Third, I just realized this semester that yams are definitely vegetables, not animals. I kind of vaguely thought about them as members of the yak family, I think.

Fourth, I arrived at school today and discovered that I had left my entire school bag at home. I didn't even have an old notebook in which to take notes. Thanks to the kindness of a girl in my first class I was equipped with some loose-leaf paper, and managed to bluff my way through the day successfully.

I'm sure there are many more such episodes, but those four spring to mind. I may or may not keep this list updated, depending upon my self-confidence level. But I can hardly resist a good story, even if it does poke fun at myself...

Snow Sketches

Once again New England was the recipient of a semi-large snow storm (large enough to cancel church here in RI!). There is often a tendency to groan and grumble about more snow, especially when it's getting in to March, and spring cravings are growing more powerful and insistent. And yet, this snow storm was of the particularly pretty variety. The snow is sticky, and coats all the trees with pristine whiteness. And now that the sun is shining, the white against the blue, as well as the sunshine on the snow, are particularly lovely.

And, after all, what would New England be without snow storms that go deep into spring? Snow has such a bonding quality for the residence of this locale. It gives an endless discussion topic, the common sight of people out scraping/brushing off their cars, the grocery store lines of pre-storm worriers (of which, I recently found out, my sister is a participant), the snow men lining the road (there were four or five just from Rt 6 to home yesterday, including my favorite one built by Jim and Laurie!), and the possibility of snow days.

Snow days are one of the quintessential aspects of New England's identity, right up there with stone walls and the Red Sox. What New England child has not felt that desperate hope, and that exultant joy of hope rewarded? Everyone seems to have that story of getting all the way to the bus stop and then discovering their reprieve with as much celebration as any convict. And of course, what New England child has not felt that desolation of seeing the bus come through the snow - the indignation of knowing that the superintendent should have called off school, because look how bad the roads are and into what jeopardy the school children are being thrust.

And of course, there is my old pronouncement that, when the cold weather isn't making me just plain mad at its fierceness, it is making me tough. I identify with my pilgrim predecessors, who survived in the wilderness long ago, and raised up a stock of New Englanders almost as tough as they (almost, you see, because now we have things like central heating, insulation, and snow plows). There is still that steely quality to a New Englander that allows him to emerge triumphant from the winter months.

Okay, so now that we've had this beautiful storm, and I've gone to great lengths to talk it up, I'm ready for the triumphant emerging part. Bring on the Spring!

12 Things I Love About PC

1. The brick buildings. They look so striking against a blue sky.

2. Dr. Delasanta, Dr. Lynch, Dr. Barbour - three of the best English professors in the world. They are unpretentious, incredibly smart, and conservative.

3. Where else would you hear a professor lambaste postmodernism? ("It takes a little fuzziness and makes universal fuzziness.")

4. The students at PC will hold the door open for you even if you're several steps away from the door. If you do the same for them they will always say thank you.

5. Harkins Hall - it looks like it came straight from England.

6. The trees on the way from the library to Alburtus Magnus - they look like they came straight out of Tolkien.

7. One can unexpectedly get incredible spiritual good from a lecture or an assigned reading.

8. I now know how to spell Renaissance. (After spelling it numerous ways in my notes, I finally looked it up.)

9. The grounds keepers plant impatiens everywhere every fall, and it is exceptionally beautiful.

10. The College Republicans are the largest club on campus.

11. Among the throngs of typical college kids you can find some very real, unique, interesting, and kindred-spirit-ish people.

12. And the grand finale... Our sports teams are called The Friars!

It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This!

George Will, my favorite baseball writer, once wrote an article entitled "Baseball and Conservatism." Melissa found this most excellent photo, which would be the perfect illustration for his article!

The Rash and the Rationalized

Today I committed what may be the single most rash action of my life. I cut up a perfectly good piece of clothing! With scissors! I am still shuddering at the thought.

I woke up this morning in one of those "I have nothing to wear" moods that can hit unexpectedly, even when the closet is bursting. I was so sure I had nothing to wear that I didn't get out of bed until the NPR story I had awoken to was almost finished. But at last I decided I had to at least look. I couldn't very well tell my professors that I had skipped their classes because of truant clothing.

Upon dejectedly peering into my closet I discovered an old jumper, pushed way off to the side, that had been a favorite a couple of years ago. I looked at it with a wild surmise. Visions of Kim whipping up clothes in the morning back in our Bible School days danced in my head. Could I do it?! Could I be so reckless?

I snatched up a pair of scissors, and said aloud "Well, Kim, here goes nothing" (or some such phrase of throwing caution to the wind). Snip snip snip. A perfectly good jumper ruined. All of my Scottish ancestry recoiled in horror. My Center upbringing wept. My New England heritage gasped. How could I have been so wasteful of a perfectly good jumper?

But suddenly there I was, the proud owner of a very beautiful skirt (if I do say so myself).

Still, there seemed to be something morally wrong in what I had done. And then it dawned on me. What I had done was the essence of Scottish/Center/New England thrift! I wasn't going to wear the jumper again - it was just a little too short and a little too old. So instead of throwing away a perfectly good jumper, I re-made it into a very wearable skirt! Ah ha! My Scottish ancestry cheered. My Center upbringing danced. My New England heritage exulted in another faithful daughter refusing to be wasteful.

And now, after this intense moral and mental journey, I am still the proud owner of a very beautiful skirt!

English Oddities

I have heard that English is one of the most difficult languages to learn. I have no trouble believing it. Even when one has learned English grammar (probably better than 90% of Americans), one is still unprepared for the American habit of shortening and condensing. "You wanna go? I'm gunnu." Wanna? Gunnu? The one I noticed today was... Argh. I forget. But it was something like "I'll puddit in here." Of course, the t on the end of "puddit" is more like a stop in sound than an actual t. Actual t's are pronounced by only a very small segment of the population. In fact, when I heard someone say waTer, I wondered why people were so impolite as to refuse to laugh at his humor. Fortunately I realized, before lifting up my voice in supportive laughter, that it wasn't supposed to be a joke. This was very much like the time I almost told a professor he had something on his forehead before I realized it was Ash Wednesday. I think my guardian angel does a lot more than protect me from physical danger. He has his hands full with keeping my faux pas number to the "keep her humble" level, as opposed to the "she is the laughingstock of the universe" level. And for those moments when even my guardian angel can't stop me, I can always pretend I haven't mastered all of the idioms of English. Ha ha, you thought I was being dumb, but actually I was being really really smart in a non-idiomatic way. Hurrah for the difficulties of the English language. May it ever be shrouded in mystery, if only for the less socially adept among us.

Driving Woes and Wonders

Driving brings out two very different sides of my personality. My repressed wicked-mean side comes out when people drive too slowly, or pull out in front of me, or do anything that deviates in any way from my preferred driving style. Sometimes driving makes me angry at the world. Of course I don't technically believe in even joking about hating specific people, but I make exceptions in generalizing about the whole human race. When I finally manage to get around the 5-mph-under-the-speed-limit person in front of me only to pull up behind the 10-mph-under-the-speed-limit person two blocks down the road, I begin to reminisce fondly about the drivers in Israel, who beep their horns in one long continuous blast when they are stuck in traffic jams. Oh to be able to release the tension in such an eloquent manner. Of course this is frequently right before I see that the driver is a very small, frightened looking woman, toward whom I couldn't possibly feel any lasting rancor.

But then there are the times when driving brings feelings of harmony with my fellow man. The flashed lights that mean "I see you are never going to get out of that side road without some kind soul letting you in, so here I am to be the kind soul" fill me with gratitude, and a little more faith in humanity, even when I am not the one being let into traffic. But even more I am in awe of the four-way stop. It speaks to me of harmony and order and the rule of law. Here is an intersection that could be a disaster, with the aggressive drivers zipping through and the timid ones stuck for hours. But instead each acts in the proper order, deferring when necessary and taking the lead when necessary. I usually feel very bonded with whoever else is at the intersection with me, although I don't break up the careful choreography of the moment to tell them so.

Driving, therefore, can be a very emotional part of my day. They should warn you about these things in driver's ed.

Transitions and Motives

Several years ago a wise woman told me that transitions are always hard, but they can bring about great good (or something like that). I am discovering the hard element of the transition to bloggerhood. For instance, how in the world do I change the time zone from Los Angeles to Scituate? How do I come up with some creative blurb to go under my title? How come my post is deleted when I try to edit it? There is indeed much to discover.

But I am forseeing the great good as well. Okay, "great good" might be a little magnificent for what I have in mind. Let's just say I am having ideas of things on which to write.

What tipped the balance in favor of starting a blog was remembering my old ambition of becoming a columnist like Mary Roach of Reader's Digest or Ann Coulter of Whoever Isn't Too Offended to Publish Her Columns (and yes, I realize that Mary Roach and Ann Coulter are very different - I want to keep my options open), and I thought this could be the perfect venue for launching my career.

Of course, this is not to say that everything on this blog is going to be informational/funny/political/interesting. I may indeed revert to talking about how my day went.

But at least the old ambition gave me enough courage to start a blog without feeling like I was merely adding to the time-wasting triviality of the world.

Okay, I'm going to try to figure out how to switch time zones now. If I can't enjoy the warmth and sunshine of Los Angeles, I'm not going to submit myself to their time.

The Beginning

Well, friends, is has begun. With trepidation and excitement I have entered the arena.