Anchors, Part 1

So I was looking at some old books, classics. A lot of them were written in serial form, so here is a taste of a short story I wrote... in serial form. Half this week and half next week. I mentioned some of the ideas in it in an earlier post (in March) "Patience and Waiting." Enjoy.

Anchors

        The ocean reaches out in front of us towards the rising sun. The waves catch the sunlight in a reflected path of gold leading across Massachusetts Bay. I’m perched on the rocks, my little sister, Sadie, sits cross-legged in front of me. She’s five this year. The wind blowing off the water makes braiding her hair difficult, but I’m glad to spend this brief moment out here.
        Somewhere out there in a merchant ship is our father and two of our brothers. This is the first full year that Paul has been gone too. I look down at Sadie as I loop a bit of ribbon around the end of her brown braid. She leans back against me, her head warm against my breast.
        “When will they be back, Hope?”
        “I don’t know, soon.” I say. They’re gone on one of their long winter journeys but the crocuses are in bloom. They’ll be back. “Come on, it’s time to go help Mama.” We stand up, balancing on the rocks.
        “Do I have too? “She wraps her thin arms around my legs and looks up at me, her green-eyes big.
        My mouth twitches “We’ll see.” I rub the small ivory pendant around my neck with my thumb. The small anchor is warm to the touch. As we return to the house my mind wanders back to the autumn I was thirteen. That was the year Sadie was born.

* * *

        Papa, tan and lean from his summer voyages, had been home for a couple of weeks. During the summer trips he rode the coasts going down to Salem and Boston, and he was home for weeks between. I loved the summer because of it. He would show me how to draw with charcoal and tell his stories about strange sea creatures and exotic people. But orange streaks were beginning to appear on the pumpkins. He would soon be heading out to sea again for the long winter trading, that’s when he would be gone for months at a time, traveling to far off places, to trade for sugar and rum.
Nate and I had been climbing our favorite tree. “Land ho!” He called, his freckled face half hidden by his spyglass that he had crafted out of a tube of birch bark.
I climbed up beside him “What do you see?” He pointed towards the town of Ipswich, in the opposite direction of our home, only a few plumes of smoke visible from this far away.
“They must be savages, Cap’n.”
“You’re right. They must be the ones who took Little Paul, the cabin boy.”
We heard a bell chime on the wind. I climbed to the ground. “Come on Nate, we have to go.”
He kept staring through his birch bark.
“Come on!”
“Alright, alright.” He slid down the trunk, ripping the leg of his pants in the process. We gathered up the pile of branches that stood at the foot of the maple tree. We had been out gathering wood. We raced homeward.
        “Ha! I have more,” I called over my shoulder, arms filled with wrist sized branches.
        “Mine are bigger.” Nate ran past me on my right, but stumbled, his feet no longer on the path. He regained his footing just as I brushed past him, the rough bark of the maple logs pulling at his homespun shirt.
        We thundered to a stop next to the woodpile that was partially protected by the eaves of our little cottage. The chickens scattered at our approach. Our loads fell from our arms as we hurried to stack them neatly. We could smell Mama’s stew cooking. With the last log in place we tumbled inside, shoving each other through the doorway.
“I won,” I said.
“Did not.” Nate pushed me once more.
        “Settle down you two,” Mama said as she spooned stew into the smooth wooden bowls. “There’s enough for all.”
        My glare of triumph subsided into a smile as Nate and I sat down on the edge of the bed. Papa and Mama sat in the two roughhewn chairs. Little Paul and Tommy climbed up beside us, and Johnny, the smallest, a chunky two year old, sat on Papa’s knee. The stew was delicious, but we ate it as fast as we could. Sometimes after dinner, Mama would let us play hide and seek at dusk. After we finished I gathered up the bowls to wash them. She rested her hand on her barely swollen belly; with the new baby coming she was extra tired by the end of the work-filled days.
Papa placed Johnny on the ground to play with a pile of seashells, and went to stand behind Mama. With his hand on her shoulder he spoke.
        “Nate, your Mama and I think it’s high time you came to sea with me.”
        Nate’s face broke into a giant smile. “Really Papa, me? You think I’m ready?” He jumped to his feet making Tommy and Paul rock as if they were at sea in a storm.
        Papa nodded his head and smiled at Nate. Did I get to go too? I dropped the bowl I was holding. It skittered across the floor until it hit Johnny’s shells sending them cascading across the floor. He started howling. I didn’t care.
        “What about me, Papa?” I asked, looking up into his dark windblown face.
        His lips tweaked at the corners, like he was going to laugh, but when he glanced down at Mama who had reached over to Johnny, he stopped.
        “Hope girl,” he said, “the sea isn’t the place for you.” His voice was gentle, the way it was when he dusted Tommy off after a fall. I hated it.
        Nate danced over to me “I’m going to sea!” He grabbed my hands and tried to pull me into his dance, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him away.
        “It’s not fair. I’m older.”
        “But I’m a boy, silly.” Nate grinned. I pushed him again, making him step back. His smile slipped, and he stepped back again, his eyes serious and sorry.
        “Hope, don’t push your brother like that,” Papa said, his eyebrows lowering.
“But Papa. I’m better at hunting clams then he is, and I can climb any tree faster.”
Little Paul and Tommy’s eyes were huge looking at me.
“That’s not the point. You need to stay home with your mother.”
I stuck out my jaw. “It’s not fair. It’s boring here. I want to go sailing with you!” I looked around the room my eyes catching on the rough charcoal drawings of foreign flowers and strange fish that Papa had drawn. Evidence of his adventures. I pointed to my favorite drawing of dolphins jumping in moonlit waters. “I want to see it.”
Mama looked up at me from where she sat on the ground with Johnny. “Hope, that’s enough. You’re staying here with me.”
I stepped forward, my hands balled into fists. Papa looked at me so hard I felt as though I had been pierced by a knife. Something leaked out of me. I turned my back to my family and picked up another bowl. I swished it in the pail of water and scraped it and my hands against the cleansing sand.
I felt like a Nor’easter was howling through the cottage. But, besides Johnny whimpering, nothing else was heard.

        The morning Papa and Nate left I moped around. Nate tried to talk to me, and so did Mama. Papa gave me the occasional sad look, but I ignored them all. The moment they were out of sight down the path towards the ocean I followed. Behind me I heard Johnny and Tommy crying. Mama was hushing them.
        I didn’t heed any of it. My feet pounded the trail that Nate and I had come up together so often before. Now I ran alone. He was leaving and I wasn’t going with him. Veering from the main path I headed towards my favorite climbing tree. It was a large maple, with a trunk thick as a mast and branches where old blankets hung like sails. Grabbing the lowest branch I swung myself up. I crouched there for a moment, caught my breath and then climbed upwards, away from my world. The rough bark caught at my hands as I climbed carelessly; it gave me a reason for the tears that threatened my eyes. Twigs pulled at my hair, but I climbed on until the main trunk swayed and I could see out towards the ocean. Nate, Little Paul, Tommy, and I had climbed trees for years, especially this one. We pretended they were the rigging of the ships Papa sailed. We had great adventures in foreign lands together. I had always known that someday Nate would go off to sea too, but somehow I always thought that I would go with him. We did everything together; gathered wood, taught Little Paul how to hunt for clams, fed the chickens, and played King of the Mountain. I always got to do what he did.
The wind blew and my legs started to shake from the strange position. I rearranged myself, no longer looking outwards to the setting sun. I lay my head against the bark. Mama never went to sea. None of the women did. Why would I be any different? I wished I had thought about this before, so I could have known what to do, how to feel.
        I sat there crouched against the swaying tree.
My tears stopped, and I scrambled out of the tree --out of the rigging. My sleeve was wet from rubbing it against my face. I walked home slowly. When I got there Mama stood at the fireplace. She hugged me, but didn’t say anything; neither did I.

Anthropology's Ultimate Dichotomy: The Humanities and the Sciences.

So here is a part of one of the essays I wrote for my final. Most of it was pretty dense, but I thought some people might find bits of it entertaining so here is the Introduction and Conclusion.

 Archaeology has intrigued me since I was eight years old. Unsurprisingly this has led me into the wider field of Anthropology, it seemed the perfect fit for me because of how it combines the sciences and humanities. My father is a research physicist, thus it is unsurprising that I grew up with strong scientific modes of thought. In high school I took several math and science classes which I enjoyed but I also excelled in art, history, and literature. There was always underlying tension between the recognized value of the sciences versus the humanities. As I study Anthropology I have found this same underlying tension. Claude Levi-Strauss said that “Anthropology is, with music and mathematics, one of the few true vocations; and the anthropologist may become aware of it within himself before ever he has been taught it.” It is intriguing that he chose to mention both music and mathematics. These two disciplines are often viewed as completely opposite or even incompatible, which is just one line drawn in the sand that separates the humanities and the sciences. The question then, is whether Anthropology should be considered a hard science, or part of the humanities.
This conflict is deeply ingrained in Western culture, and anthropology as a child of the west (Pandian 13) is inexorably entrenched as well... The more I come to understand these dichotomies the more I see that they are more or less divided along the same lines as the sciences and humanities...

 Though there are a wide range of dichotomies in anthropology the one between the humanities and the sciences appears to be overarching. The paradigms inherent in these disciplines lead to, or at least encompass, the other debates. C. P. Snow in his article The Two Cultures addresses the almost impenetrable wall that has been built between the sciences and humanities, and although he recognizes the oversimplification of limiting it to two, he also explains that by doing so, it addresses the problem in a more direct fashion (Snow, 9). Hence, I have followed Snow in dividing anthropology into two camps. These two paradigms are considered incommensurable by some. This divisiveness threatens the effectiveness of anthropology as a whole. On the other hand Lett argues that science and the humanities can be complementary, and anthropology is a “humanistic science” (Lett 121). To be holistic, each individual anthropologist does not need to be an expert on every aspect of the field, indeed that would be impossible. Instead, to achieve holism it is necessary for Archaeologists, Linguists, Cultural, and Biological anthropologists from all different paradigms need to stop “crash[ing] in the night” (Harris). Communication between these groups is what we should work towards. In Robert Frost's poem, The Mending Wall, he writes of two farmers repairing a stone wall and their conversation about the need for the wall. “He is all pine and I am apple orchard./ My apple trees will never get across/ And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him./ He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.” Although there is no logical reason for a wall, the one farmer insists repeatedly that “Good fences make good neighbors.” Perhaps, this is an attainable solution for anthropology. If the line is left drawn between the sciences and the humanities, then it can make good neighbours between the “Two Cultures”.
As I began to draft this paper I wanted to portray both sides fairly, not belittling science or the humanities. During the process I noticed myself almost unconsciously using words and phrases that reflected a stronger connection to the scientific paradigm. At first I fought against these tendencies because I felt that if I chose one side I would be unfair to the other. As I continued however, I decided that it is not wrong to choose a side, in fact therein lies the power. Excepting that the questions I ask and my way of looking at the world fits within the science of culture, gives me leeway to pursue the questions that can be answered by such a paradigm. Understanding the strengths of the humanities is helpful and reveals possible weaknesses of bias, but ultimately accepting my own scientific paradigm opens up the questions and answers that come with the rest of the baggage.  

(I warned you it was dense)

Summer Meanderings

Ahh. So I'm a slacker. I apologize two whole weeks without a post. Don't worry I will "repent, and change my ways." So I just finished up finals. Sometimes I miss having test finals, mostly I had papers due instead. But I'm done now. Hurrah! Which means I will have a whole summer filled with free time, and naps and getting everything done that I want. Haha. Not really. I have this bad habit of putting things off and then saying that I can do them all during the break (Spring Break/Summer/etc.). But there is just so much to do, the problem is I have a lot fewer deadlines. I work well with deadlines. So my plans for this summer are to do some cleaning, write a book, do some gardening, and some painting. And of course spending time with my family. Now I have written it down and have some accountability. Let us see how I do. Happy Summer all. Enough rambling.

Totems

I have heard that one definition of a totem is an animal that you have a connection with. Thinking about that is interesting to me because there have been several animals that I have called myself/pretended I was etc. So here are a few and some of the reasons why:

• Shrike: one of my computer/avatar names. I actually wrote a whole essay about why I choose the name shrike. Some of the reasons being a shrike is a tough, resourceful, little bird.
• Griffin: the mythical creature I would most like to be. I always liked the fierceness of the lion but with the freedom that wings would bring.
• Hedgehog: They just seem super cute. I want one. They are all prickly on the outside but cute and cuddly when you get to know them... I'm not exactly sure I would call myself cuddly, but still. I think I like skunks for similar reasons. (I have a beanie baby hedgehog named Prickles).
• Dog: When I was little I constantly played dogs/puppies. I was told my bark was quite convincing - maybe they were just being nice. I don't know very much about dogs but I have always preferred the bigger ones like dalmatians (because of 101 Dalmatians), Rottweilers (I like their markings), and labs. (I have quite a few stuffed animal dogs including Wonder, Floppy, Bones, and Glowie).
• Tiger: If I wasn't pretending I was a dog or a griffin I was a tiger, especially a white tiger. "Tiger tiger burning bright." Tigers are fierce, strong, mysterious loners. They have always been intriguing. (Sharrie is my orange tiger and Quittle is my white tiger).

Anyway, those are some of my favorite animals, and I think favorites often tell you something about yourself.... or maybe just what you want to be yourself. So now the question stands.... what is your favorite animals? or if you were an animagus what would you be?

Grass or Memorials

Grass

Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let me work -

I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?

Where are we now?

I am the grass.

Let me work.

Today I walked past a small pavilion on campus where a young women was reading something. And no one was listening, we were all just walking on past. But I heard some of her somber words. She was listing off names, races and places of lynchings. Individuals killed for various reasons. Often charges of murder. And you know what I thought? You can judge me. Great another memorial for death and evil.

In High School during one of my English classes we read the poem above, and my teacher asked if we should put memorials up for all these places. I echo what I said then. If we look back far enough in time, probably every step we take is on a place where someone (or something) died. Someone cheated, someone lied. Lets not put a sign at every one of those places. I'm not saying that war memorials are bad, and we shouldn't have any, but sometimes, we dwell so much on the negative things in life that we don't let the grass grow. We don't let healing take place.

I mean really. How does it heal anyone to have someone read names to nobody about lynchings 100 years old?

Egg Traditions

Happy Easter.

Because of this Easter season I have been hearing about different Easter traditions recently.

• Easter baskets filled with toys, candy, or bread to be found in the morning.
• Easter egg hunt
• Decorating Easter eggs- crayons and dye/dye/natural dyes/yarn/stickers
• Huge dinners
• Eating something with hard boiled eggs- deviled eggs/creamed eggs on toast/potato salad/egg salad sandwiches
• Belief in the Easter bunny
• Rolling Easter Eggs down snow banks or sand dunes

Growing up we always decorated Easter Eggs. Usually we draw pictures on them with crayons (or cray-pas work better) and then dye them. We also always went on an Easter Egg Hunt. We had to go play in one area while our parents hid them. So much fun. And when we had the chance we rolled them.

I never remember believing in the Easter Bunny, having a big dinner, or getting Easter baskets (well maybe once). My favorite Easter Book was/is definitely The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by Du Bose Heyward.

Happy Easter, and I hope you enjoyed your own Easter traditions - all revolving around eggs apparently.

Types ofCreativity

I like being creative. Making order and beauty out of nothing. It makes me happy. The thing is, I think everyone is creative, not always in the way they paint, or scrapbook, but in the way they make dinner, or write a paper, or just the way they are. Me. I'm a make-it-do kind of creative. I like finding beauty in organizing the ordinary things around me. Although I do like painting and some of the more typical types of art. Here is one example.