It all happened rather suddenly, starting with an email that landed in my box last Tuesday. The director of the Maryland Writing Project forwarded a message about unstaffed sections of English 102 and a handful of other electives to all of us T-C's (teacher consultants, i.e. graduates of the Invitational Summer Institute). The next morning, I sent an email to the English Department Chair expressing my interest and mentioning Barbara's name (at her instruction), and 24 hours later, was offered the job. I signed the contract on Friday morning, ordered books that afternoon, and have a little over a week to prepare a syllabus and be ready to greet my class on Sept. 2.
I'll be teaching one section of English 102 (otherwise known as Freshman Composition) at Towson University this fall. Twenty students, two mornings a week from 8:00 to 9:15 A.M. Yes, it's a dreaded 8:00 class...but it's better than my old start time of 7:25! And, as the department chair reminded me when I went in to fill out paperwork last week, if a student says "I don't want to be in this class anymore," just hand him/her a drop slip and say, "So long!" No obligation to keep students who just don't want to be there, unlike high school protocol.
As I was filling out the requisite paperwork, I came upon a question that asked what "salutation" I preferred. Scanning the choices on the list, which went far beyond the usual Mr./Ms./Mrs., I noticed that Professor was an option. I didn't dare check it at first, thinking there had to be something else I had to do to earn that title, but it turns out that having a Masters degree and teaching a university class is enough. Later on I went to order books, and when the woman assisting me picked up the phone to confirm the order and began, "I have Professor Heller here..." something inside of me lit up. Just like the first few times I heard other people call me Mrs. Heller after the wedding.
Mrs. Heller?
That's Professor Heller to you!
25 August 2008
19 August 2008
A Bad Day at the Office
I had a really bad writing day last week.
Spectacularly bad.
The Judge (my pet name for the critical voice in my head) was on a tear, thriving on the energy of comparison and scarcity, stoking my self-doubt. So loud was the Judge's ranting that it drove away every other idea that tried to break through to consciousness. In the end, I walked away from my notebook feeling drained and disgusted.
It wasn't until I attempted to relate just how bad my writing had been to my husband later that evening that the revelation hit me: My bad day wasn't a sign that I should drop the pen and never pick it up again. It was just a "bad day at the office." I had plenty of them as a teacher -- days when a lesson plan fell flat, when reviewing the reading felt like slogging through a pit of quicksand, when a student's bad behavior or sour attitude made me want to quit. Why shouldn't the same hold true for the writing life?
Somewhere along the way, I had bought into the fantasy that if I was doing what I loved, there would never be any ups and downs. Just one up after another. It was the Judge at work again. The one who convinces me that everything in life is either good or bad and that the "bad" parts are to be avoided at all costs.
But without those days when the writing is hard, when it feels like the words have to be squeezed through the nib of the pen one letter at a time, how would I develop an appreciation for those blessed days when the muse visits, or even just the ones when days or weeks of revision result in a poem or essay ready for the public eye?
When I sat down to write the next morning, the Judge was silent. My words flowed from the pen to the page in a steady stream, and the bad writing of the day before receded into memory.
Spectacularly bad.
The Judge (my pet name for the critical voice in my head) was on a tear, thriving on the energy of comparison and scarcity, stoking my self-doubt. So loud was the Judge's ranting that it drove away every other idea that tried to break through to consciousness. In the end, I walked away from my notebook feeling drained and disgusted.
It wasn't until I attempted to relate just how bad my writing had been to my husband later that evening that the revelation hit me: My bad day wasn't a sign that I should drop the pen and never pick it up again. It was just a "bad day at the office." I had plenty of them as a teacher -- days when a lesson plan fell flat, when reviewing the reading felt like slogging through a pit of quicksand, when a student's bad behavior or sour attitude made me want to quit. Why shouldn't the same hold true for the writing life?
Somewhere along the way, I had bought into the fantasy that if I was doing what I loved, there would never be any ups and downs. Just one up after another. It was the Judge at work again. The one who convinces me that everything in life is either good or bad and that the "bad" parts are to be avoided at all costs.
But without those days when the writing is hard, when it feels like the words have to be squeezed through the nib of the pen one letter at a time, how would I develop an appreciation for those blessed days when the muse visits, or even just the ones when days or weeks of revision result in a poem or essay ready for the public eye?
When I sat down to write the next morning, the Judge was silent. My words flowed from the pen to the page in a steady stream, and the bad writing of the day before receded into memory.
07 August 2008
Apple Fritters
During the Invitational Summer Institute that I taught, we began each day with a half hour of writing and sharing. The fellows took turns leading the circle, and one day Marlene (an art teacher) brought us fresh herbs picked from her garden -- basil, cilantro, lavender, and lemon thyme. When we rubbed them between our fingers, they gave off wonderful fragrances, and we used those smells to kick off our writing that morning. My unedited entry, inspired by a sprig of lemon thyme and an entry my sister-in-law had written about a month earlier on her blog, follows:
Mostly, lemons remind me of apple fritters on Sunday nights -- they became a Josenhans tradition over the years. Sliced apples, coated with a pancake-like batter and deep-fried in a 1/4-inch of Crisco. The apples get warm and soft, if sliced thin enough, and the batter bubbles up, becoming light and fluffy in texture.
The proper way to eat them is sprinkled with sugar and fresh lemon -- the sweet and the sour give the dough and apples just the right flavor. I can taste them even now.
They taste best right out of the pan, so mom would fry them up as we ate, only joining us at the table when the last three had been served. Tea was our drink of choice -- another bitter to offset the sweet, or complimented by a dash of lemon itself.
Just last month on my sister-in-law's blog, she described her and the children's first experience with apple fritters for dinner. My brother had been going on about apple fritters for quite some time, which is why she asked him to make them for everyone. The pictures of my niece and nephew captured their sheer joy and delight with the sweet and sour treat -- hands sticky with sugar and lemon raised in the air. And so apple fritters will live on for at least another generation in our family.
And I wonder if maybe someday I'll be serving apple fritters to children of my own.
Mostly, lemons remind me of apple fritters on Sunday nights -- they became a Josenhans tradition over the years. Sliced apples, coated with a pancake-like batter and deep-fried in a 1/4-inch of Crisco. The apples get warm and soft, if sliced thin enough, and the batter bubbles up, becoming light and fluffy in texture.
The proper way to eat them is sprinkled with sugar and fresh lemon -- the sweet and the sour give the dough and apples just the right flavor. I can taste them even now.
They taste best right out of the pan, so mom would fry them up as we ate, only joining us at the table when the last three had been served. Tea was our drink of choice -- another bitter to offset the sweet, or complimented by a dash of lemon itself.
Just last month on my sister-in-law's blog, she described her and the children's first experience with apple fritters for dinner. My brother had been going on about apple fritters for quite some time, which is why she asked him to make them for everyone. The pictures of my niece and nephew captured their sheer joy and delight with the sweet and sour treat -- hands sticky with sugar and lemon raised in the air. And so apple fritters will live on for at least another generation in our family.
And I wonder if maybe someday I'll be serving apple fritters to children of my own.
04 August 2008
Clap on! - - Clap off!
You've heard it...the cheesy jingle for the miracle product that can be yours for just 9.99 (or some such bargain price): The Clapper. My husband was given one as a gift some years ago, and we have finally found a use for it, but it doesn't work exactly as advertised.
Shortly after moving in, we discovered that our new house does not have a light switch within reach of the door from the garage to the kitchen. The nearest switch is 6-8 feet away, enough distance to trip over a well-meaning cat who has come to welcome you home. Solution? The Clapper.
It should be noted here that The Clapper comes with very specific instructions in a 7-page mini-manual.
Having read the instructions, my husband installed our Clapper, and at first, it seemed to work just fine. Open the door, clap twice, and voila--instant light! So long as your hands weren't full and you produced two claps of a sufficient decibel, the attached lamp lit up on cue.
However, it wasn't long before we began to notice that the lamp attached to The Clapper came on at times without our clapping at all. Even after my husband adjusted it to a lower sensitivity, the light seemed to be turning on and off at will. The explanation was simple: three words in the instruction booklet that we had overlooked on our first reading: "Each clap detection light will glow when a proper clap (or similar sound) is detected."
That is, if a sneeze is at all similar in sound to a clap. Or if two dishes clanking together as they are removed from the dishwasher (at least 20 feet away from the Clapper's sensor) and returned to the cabinet is similar in sound to a clap. Or if laughing at Leno's late night jokes is similar in sound to a clap. Turns out when they say similar, they mean that in the broadest sense of the word.
As for the 1/2 to 1 second pause between claps, turns out that's not so accurate either. My mom, on a recent visit, had no trouble getting the lamp to turn on with two claps in rapid succession, which could spell trouble for Clapper users who summon their dog for a walk with a couple of good claps.
In the end though, while it is annoying to be in the middle of reading a good book when the light goes off just because someone inadvertently makes a noise that triggers The Clapper, there is some good news in all of this. When I come through the door into a dark house with my hands full, if I can just muster a big sneeze, the light will come on anyway. I guess "Sneeze on! -- Sneeze off!" just didn't make as catchy a jingle.
Shortly after moving in, we discovered that our new house does not have a light switch within reach of the door from the garage to the kitchen. The nearest switch is 6-8 feet away, enough distance to trip over a well-meaning cat who has come to welcome you home. Solution? The Clapper.
It should be noted here that The Clapper comes with very specific instructions in a 7-page mini-manual.
"The clapping sequence," it says, "is more important than how loudly you clap: CLAP (pause) CLAP (pause) (pause) (pause) where each pause is approximately 1/2 to 1 second long."(For those who are not as well versed in Clapper operation, the long pause at the end indicates that you want the 2-clap appliance to turn on as opposed to the 3-clap appliance.)
Having read the instructions, my husband installed our Clapper, and at first, it seemed to work just fine. Open the door, clap twice, and voila--instant light! So long as your hands weren't full and you produced two claps of a sufficient decibel, the attached lamp lit up on cue.
However, it wasn't long before we began to notice that the lamp attached to The Clapper came on at times without our clapping at all. Even after my husband adjusted it to a lower sensitivity, the light seemed to be turning on and off at will. The explanation was simple: three words in the instruction booklet that we had overlooked on our first reading: "Each clap detection light will glow when a proper clap (or similar sound) is detected."
That is, if a sneeze is at all similar in sound to a clap. Or if two dishes clanking together as they are removed from the dishwasher (at least 20 feet away from the Clapper's sensor) and returned to the cabinet is similar in sound to a clap. Or if laughing at Leno's late night jokes is similar in sound to a clap. Turns out when they say similar, they mean that in the broadest sense of the word.
As for the 1/2 to 1 second pause between claps, turns out that's not so accurate either. My mom, on a recent visit, had no trouble getting the lamp to turn on with two claps in rapid succession, which could spell trouble for Clapper users who summon their dog for a walk with a couple of good claps.
In the end though, while it is annoying to be in the middle of reading a good book when the light goes off just because someone inadvertently makes a noise that triggers The Clapper, there is some good news in all of this. When I come through the door into a dark house with my hands full, if I can just muster a big sneeze, the light will come on anyway. I guess "Sneeze on! -- Sneeze off!" just didn't make as catchy a jingle.
21 July 2008
Back in the Saddle...
I finally invite you to read, and then I disappear from the radar for a month....So my apologies to you, my neglected readers, if you have checked in only to be disappointed by the absence of any new entries. On the bright side, there is a glut of future entry topics stored up in my mind, and they should be appearing soon.
This past month has been a whirlwind...and not the kind that allows for any blogging time. We closed on our new house and completed phases 1 and 2 of the move the next day -- phase 1: getting my stuff out of storage and phase 2: moving my boxes, our wedding presents, and the first load of Paul's stuff from his house. Some things will have to stay behind for "staging" when we get through the renovations we want to do before putting it on the market. So there is more painting and scraping in my immediate future. In the meantime, it's nice to finally be able to use all of those nice gifts we got for our wedding a year ago!
The bulk of my energy this past three weeks has gone to coordinating the Maryland Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. We had a wildly talented group of teachers who met all of our expectations and then some. Our class time began at 8:30 and ended at 3:30, but stretched into the early and late hours of the day with homework and preparation time added. In the end, everyone left with 20+ fabulous lessons for enriching writing instruction in their classrooms and an anthology of the personal and professional writing of the institute's participants. The results of all of our hard work confirmed for me again that this is the best professional development opportunity out there for teachers -- of any grade or discipline (shameless plug)! It is a truly transformative experience. I look forward to staying in touch with all of this year's fellows throughout the year as a mentor and as a fellow writer.
But for now, I return to the domestic front where, not surprisingly, there is still much unpacking to be done. There are boxes of books calling to be put on shelves, clothing to be shelved or given away, and pictures to be hung. And there is still furniture to be bought before we'll be able to give a proper home to everything. Which is why I will keep it short for today....
This past month has been a whirlwind...and not the kind that allows for any blogging time. We closed on our new house and completed phases 1 and 2 of the move the next day -- phase 1: getting my stuff out of storage and phase 2: moving my boxes, our wedding presents, and the first load of Paul's stuff from his house. Some things will have to stay behind for "staging" when we get through the renovations we want to do before putting it on the market. So there is more painting and scraping in my immediate future. In the meantime, it's nice to finally be able to use all of those nice gifts we got for our wedding a year ago!
The bulk of my energy this past three weeks has gone to coordinating the Maryland Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. We had a wildly talented group of teachers who met all of our expectations and then some. Our class time began at 8:30 and ended at 3:30, but stretched into the early and late hours of the day with homework and preparation time added. In the end, everyone left with 20+ fabulous lessons for enriching writing instruction in their classrooms and an anthology of the personal and professional writing of the institute's participants. The results of all of our hard work confirmed for me again that this is the best professional development opportunity out there for teachers -- of any grade or discipline (shameless plug)! It is a truly transformative experience. I look forward to staying in touch with all of this year's fellows throughout the year as a mentor and as a fellow writer.
But for now, I return to the domestic front where, not surprisingly, there is still much unpacking to be done. There are boxes of books calling to be put on shelves, clothing to be shelved or given away, and pictures to be hung. And there is still furniture to be bought before we'll be able to give a proper home to everything. Which is why I will keep it short for today....
15 June 2008
That Reminds Me...
It is sometimes said that boys marry women like their mothers and girls marry men like their fathers. As an English major, I’ve read the Oedipus story a few too many times to think that any good could come of that. As much as I love my dad, I certainly did not go looking for a clone of him to marry, but it turns out that my husband of one year shares more with my father than just his name.
For starters, both are tall, handsome men with full heads of hair (no inherited male pattern baldness here) who maintain their slim builds despite a shared penchant for ice cream. But the similarities go beyond the physical.
Both are practicing Catholics who attend church regularly, which may be due in part to several years of Catholic schooling. Dad attended a Jesuit high school and college, while my husband was taught by nuns from kindergarten through eighth grade. Both occasionally merit the moniker of St. Paul for their extreme patience, which may mean they are headed for either sainthood or martyrdom (depending on whom you ask).
While their Catholic upbringings may account for similarities in their values, it is wholly unrelated to some of the other similarities I’ve noticed over the past few years. For example, neither one is an avid swimmer. Dad grew up in Brooklyn, my husband in a small town in western Iowa; thus, neither had easy access to the kind of pool at which I spent the better part of my summer days. Dad prefers spending his time around water sailing a Sunfish (a source of many fond memories), and my Paul gets by with the help of a kickboard or flippers. Just don't ask them to put their heads under water for very long.
And while we’re on the topic of sports, neither Paul is a big sports fan. Sure, Dad is a diehard Ohio State Buckeyes fan and enjoys his breakfasts at Wimbledon, but you won’t find him glued to football games every weekend with his feet up and a beer in hand. Thankfully, I won’t ever find my husband doing that either; memories of his own father talking to (or shouting at) the tv to encourage the players on his favorite teams pretty much ensures that.
Where money is concerned, my father and my husband take a similar approach. They are good savers and shrewd investors. They also share a belief about the stock market – namely, that they have an adverse affect on the stocks that they purchase. If they buy shares of a particular stock, look out – it’s likely to take a dive, they’ll tell you.
And finally, there’s music. While both Paul’s have some musical talent, they are largely tone deaf when it comes to singing. Dad is a self-taught piano player – he learned to “fake” the chords of the left hand by learning some basic chord progressions and plays the melody as written with his right. His playing of the Christmas carols each year was always more reliable than his singing (sorry, dad!). My husband played the clarinet in his school’s marching and concert bands and has been known to sing along with the radio in the car. Although he can carry a tune on his own, he has a knack for singing exactly a half-step off whenever I join in. Strangely, he can sing any church song on pitch (see paragraph 3 above).
So did I marry my father after all? Nope, in the end, the differences far outweigh the similarities. Safe to say that I do not suffer from an Oedipal complex. But there is one last thing my husband and father have in common, one that I am most grateful for: a kind and loving heart. I am lucky to be loved by both!
For starters, both are tall, handsome men with full heads of hair (no inherited male pattern baldness here) who maintain their slim builds despite a shared penchant for ice cream. But the similarities go beyond the physical.
Both are practicing Catholics who attend church regularly, which may be due in part to several years of Catholic schooling. Dad attended a Jesuit high school and college, while my husband was taught by nuns from kindergarten through eighth grade. Both occasionally merit the moniker of St. Paul for their extreme patience, which may mean they are headed for either sainthood or martyrdom (depending on whom you ask).
While their Catholic upbringings may account for similarities in their values, it is wholly unrelated to some of the other similarities I’ve noticed over the past few years. For example, neither one is an avid swimmer. Dad grew up in Brooklyn, my husband in a small town in western Iowa; thus, neither had easy access to the kind of pool at which I spent the better part of my summer days. Dad prefers spending his time around water sailing a Sunfish (a source of many fond memories), and my Paul gets by with the help of a kickboard or flippers. Just don't ask them to put their heads under water for very long.
And while we’re on the topic of sports, neither Paul is a big sports fan. Sure, Dad is a diehard Ohio State Buckeyes fan and enjoys his breakfasts at Wimbledon, but you won’t find him glued to football games every weekend with his feet up and a beer in hand. Thankfully, I won’t ever find my husband doing that either; memories of his own father talking to (or shouting at) the tv to encourage the players on his favorite teams pretty much ensures that.
Where money is concerned, my father and my husband take a similar approach. They are good savers and shrewd investors. They also share a belief about the stock market – namely, that they have an adverse affect on the stocks that they purchase. If they buy shares of a particular stock, look out – it’s likely to take a dive, they’ll tell you.
And finally, there’s music. While both Paul’s have some musical talent, they are largely tone deaf when it comes to singing. Dad is a self-taught piano player – he learned to “fake” the chords of the left hand by learning some basic chord progressions and plays the melody as written with his right. His playing of the Christmas carols each year was always more reliable than his singing (sorry, dad!). My husband played the clarinet in his school’s marching and concert bands and has been known to sing along with the radio in the car. Although he can carry a tune on his own, he has a knack for singing exactly a half-step off whenever I join in. Strangely, he can sing any church song on pitch (see paragraph 3 above).
So did I marry my father after all? Nope, in the end, the differences far outweigh the similarities. Safe to say that I do not suffer from an Oedipal complex. But there is one last thing my husband and father have in common, one that I am most grateful for: a kind and loving heart. I am lucky to be loved by both!
11 June 2008
Excuses, Excuses
As you may have noticed, I haven't written an entry for a while. It's not that I haven't been writing -- there are pages in my notebook that will attest to that -- I just haven't put anything here for a while. I have a whole lot of reasons why not...whether you choose to believe them is up to you.
1) I am saving my fingers for the painting I'm doing around the house.
2) The cat sat on the keyboard of my laptop and refused to move.
3) I was on the phone all day trying to solve the problem of the painted firebox at the new house -- before closing date arrives.
4) I didn't want the computer's fan to contribute to the ongoing heat wave.
5) I spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to burn pictures to a CD so I could get reprints and get the wedding album together before our first anniversary.
6) I was fighting off giant spider crickets so I could mop under the stairwell in the basement.
7) I was standing on my head trying to increase the time I can spend in that pose.
8) I was trying to beat my Pac-Man record.
9) The computer ate it.
10) I got distracted....
1) I am saving my fingers for the painting I'm doing around the house.
2) The cat sat on the keyboard of my laptop and refused to move.
3) I was on the phone all day trying to solve the problem of the painted firebox at the new house -- before closing date arrives.
4) I didn't want the computer's fan to contribute to the ongoing heat wave.
5) I spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to burn pictures to a CD so I could get reprints and get the wedding album together before our first anniversary.
6) I was fighting off giant spider crickets so I could mop under the stairwell in the basement.
7) I was standing on my head trying to increase the time I can spend in that pose.
8) I was trying to beat my Pac-Man record.
9) The computer ate it.
10) I got distracted....
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