Tags: Politics; Cartoons; Iraq
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Scary Stuff
When my exurban and vestigially agricultural community makes the news, it's usually because of issues of sprawl or efforts to preserve land from it. Lately, we've drawn attention for an outbreak of inexplicable barbarities. I miss the days when land developers were the bad guys.
Over the winter, a number of fox and coyote carcasses turned up around local dumpsters. People reported this to the Human Society, who concluded at the time that they had been left by trappers. Plausible. These findings probably were an embarrassment to conscientious hunters or trappers, but not something many people lost sleep over.
On March 16, a decaptitated Rotweiler was foundnest to five skinned coyotes near an intersection a couple miles from me. Perhaps the trapper was incensed at finding the pet dog had sprung one of his traps and vented his anger on it. Uncalled for in any case, but something more likely to provoke disgust or outrage than fear.
During the last week, however, the bodies of domestic dogs, along with a few coyotes and foxes, have turned up almost daily along nearby roads. In spots that I drive or sometimes walk past. Some have been decapitated, some shot. Some had their feet bound with wire. The mad trapper theory is quickly falling by the wayside. And people are getting a bit scared, wondering if this slayer of canines will eventually turn his attention to them. These bloody finds have certainly made me look at the woodlots and stream bottoms of the township a bit more warily.
Up until yesterday, the county humane society was the only agency investigating these killings, but at the behest of our township supervisor, the sheriff's department became involved. I'm glad to see that. Still, I can imagine myself in a black sweater and watch cap patrolling the margins of LeFurge Woods or the Cherry Hill nature preserve at night. Seriously.
Following the recent carnage gives me a new appreciation for the vigilante impulse. I'm not actually going to arm myself and stake out the township's open spaces, and I'm not encouraging anyone else to. But understanding the law as well as the social consequences of taking it into my own hands doesn't remove the wish that I could hunt down this miscreant and stop him from hurting anyone else, whether four-legged or two. It's a new feeling. Violence against animals doesn't anger me more than violence against humans, but I've never found myself close to some ongoing and mysterious pattern of menace. When I've felt righteous anger (an emotion I'm fairly suspect about in the first place) it was usually aimed at someone distant, often known to me only as a figure on a screen, and who was unlikely in any event to pose a direct bodily threat to my neighbors.
I still think most of the world's true evils are diffuse, multirooted, and not vulnerable to the direct application of force or to single, decisive actions. Yet only the ones that aren't will usually generate a sense of urgency. That's a mundane truth, but perhaps a tragic one as well.
Tags: Crime; Community
Over the winter, a number of fox and coyote carcasses turned up around local dumpsters. People reported this to the Human Society, who concluded at the time that they had been left by trappers. Plausible. These findings probably were an embarrassment to conscientious hunters or trappers, but not something many people lost sleep over.
On March 16, a decaptitated Rotweiler was foundnest to five skinned coyotes near an intersection a couple miles from me. Perhaps the trapper was incensed at finding the pet dog had sprung one of his traps and vented his anger on it. Uncalled for in any case, but something more likely to provoke disgust or outrage than fear.
During the last week, however, the bodies of domestic dogs, along with a few coyotes and foxes, have turned up almost daily along nearby roads. In spots that I drive or sometimes walk past. Some have been decapitated, some shot. Some had their feet bound with wire. The mad trapper theory is quickly falling by the wayside. And people are getting a bit scared, wondering if this slayer of canines will eventually turn his attention to them. These bloody finds have certainly made me look at the woodlots and stream bottoms of the township a bit more warily.
Up until yesterday, the county humane society was the only agency investigating these killings, but at the behest of our township supervisor, the sheriff's department became involved. I'm glad to see that. Still, I can imagine myself in a black sweater and watch cap patrolling the margins of LeFurge Woods or the Cherry Hill nature preserve at night. Seriously.
Following the recent carnage gives me a new appreciation for the vigilante impulse. I'm not actually going to arm myself and stake out the township's open spaces, and I'm not encouraging anyone else to. But understanding the law as well as the social consequences of taking it into my own hands doesn't remove the wish that I could hunt down this miscreant and stop him from hurting anyone else, whether four-legged or two. It's a new feeling. Violence against animals doesn't anger me more than violence against humans, but I've never found myself close to some ongoing and mysterious pattern of menace. When I've felt righteous anger (an emotion I'm fairly suspect about in the first place) it was usually aimed at someone distant, often known to me only as a figure on a screen, and who was unlikely in any event to pose a direct bodily threat to my neighbors.
I still think most of the world's true evils are diffuse, multirooted, and not vulnerable to the direct application of force or to single, decisive actions. Yet only the ones that aren't will usually generate a sense of urgency. That's a mundane truth, but perhaps a tragic one as well.
Tags: Crime; Community
Sunday, March 26, 2006
The First One
Friday, March 24, 2006
Fish Story Friday
When I was about seven, I think, my family spent a week camping in a rented trailer at a lake just north of Kalamazoo. The place was close enough to home so that my father could go to work during the day, then come back in the evening to relax and fish.
I don't have too many distinct memories of this. I know my mother, my sisters and I were stuck in the trailer on several rainy afternoons. We caught some perch, bluegill, amd bullhead, which we ate, though I remember waiting a long time between bites most evenings. We used wigglers for bait, and I think I was scared to touch them at first. One of my sisters came back from swimming with a leech on her leg. Pretty mundane, family-photo-album stuff, except for my father's performing a miracle one evening on the water.
Just before we'd come there, I had been given my first fishing rod, a short, brittle white wand witih green windings and spincasting reel that snarled on about every fourth cast. Not a piece of fine tackle, but it was all I needed then, and I was immensely proud of it.
Understandably then, I was devasted when I dropped it in the lake one night. I don't remember exactly what happened, but one minute the rod was in my hand, and the next it was over the side of the boat. Any happiness I had felt that evening sank along with it. The best toy I had ever owned was gone, and chances were I was about to receive a sharply worded admonition to watch what I was doing. I got a lot of those admonitions growing up.
To my surprise, my father remained silent. He reeled in his own line, cut off the hook he had on it and tied on the largest one he had in his tacke box. After attatching a heavy sinker just above the hook, he dropped his line in the water just over the side of the boat. It couldn't have been more than two minutes before he raised his rod and pulled mine out of the water. His oversize hook had caught it through one of the guides. I couldn't have been more astounded if he'd summoned it up with a spell.
Looking back, it probably wasn't that difficult a trick. The lake was shallow and weedy. My dad probably saw the rod resting on top of a weed bed, or on the lake bottom. But even if I had been aware of these things, I was too relieved, and too grateful to deconstruct his accomplishment. Kids, they say, are inclined to view their parents as near-omnipotent. If I did, who could blame me?
Tag: Fishing; Family
I don't have too many distinct memories of this. I know my mother, my sisters and I were stuck in the trailer on several rainy afternoons. We caught some perch, bluegill, amd bullhead, which we ate, though I remember waiting a long time between bites most evenings. We used wigglers for bait, and I think I was scared to touch them at first. One of my sisters came back from swimming with a leech on her leg. Pretty mundane, family-photo-album stuff, except for my father's performing a miracle one evening on the water.
Just before we'd come there, I had been given my first fishing rod, a short, brittle white wand witih green windings and spincasting reel that snarled on about every fourth cast. Not a piece of fine tackle, but it was all I needed then, and I was immensely proud of it.
Understandably then, I was devasted when I dropped it in the lake one night. I don't remember exactly what happened, but one minute the rod was in my hand, and the next it was over the side of the boat. Any happiness I had felt that evening sank along with it. The best toy I had ever owned was gone, and chances were I was about to receive a sharply worded admonition to watch what I was doing. I got a lot of those admonitions growing up.
To my surprise, my father remained silent. He reeled in his own line, cut off the hook he had on it and tied on the largest one he had in his tacke box. After attatching a heavy sinker just above the hook, he dropped his line in the water just over the side of the boat. It couldn't have been more than two minutes before he raised his rod and pulled mine out of the water. His oversize hook had caught it through one of the guides. I couldn't have been more astounded if he'd summoned it up with a spell.
Looking back, it probably wasn't that difficult a trick. The lake was shallow and weedy. My dad probably saw the rod resting on top of a weed bed, or on the lake bottom. But even if I had been aware of these things, I was too relieved, and too grateful to deconstruct his accomplishment. Kids, they say, are inclined to view their parents as near-omnipotent. If I did, who could blame me?
Tag: Fishing; Family
Thursday, March 23, 2006
As We Torment Those who Trespass Against Us
To paraphrase D.H. Lawrence's paraphrase of Hebrews 10:31, It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God, and a worse thing to fall into the hands of his followers.
Yesterday, Andrew Sullivan noted a Pew poll which found that American Christians are more likely to condone torture than their secular compatriots. Among the general public, 63% of survey respondents approved of torture in at least some circumstances. 66% of white Protestants condoned torture, though Roman Catholics left them in the dust with a whopping 72% supporting the use of torture. Among those identifying themselves as secular, 52% approved of toruture in some cases. Besides that 41% of secular respondents said that toruture should never be used, while only 32% of the general public, 31% of white protestants, and 26% of Catholics agreed. (Catholic teaching, BTW, holds that torture is never justified. There are times when blindly obeying the Vatican wouldn't be such a bad thing.)
It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that the godly advocates of torture also rail against moral relativism in contemporary culture.
As a Christian, I find this depressing, but not surprising. There is, of course, no shortage of evidence that religiosity doesn't necessarily coincide with humane behavior, and that religion can be bent to the service of nationalistic or factional ends. These are truly ecumenical sins.
As undeniable as these things are, I still wrestle with them. For as long as I've participated in Christian communities, I've heard the preaching and the scriptures and come away wondering "Is ANYBODY actually listening to this?" Even as a kid, I couldn't help thinking that the world, starting with the church, would be a much different place if people did. Of course, many biblical writers wondered the same thing. I don't know whether that is a consolation or a cause for deeper frustration.
Obviously some people pay attention, and I think they make the world a better place. I know too that no one's faith is perfect, and that we all may twist it to serve our personal agendas. But you would hope we would have learned something from occasions when nations comfortably balanced the gospel in one hand with slavery, genocide, or imperialism in the other. As Paul says at one point, people may argue about what is or isn't sin, but there are some acts that are sinful beyond any question. I believe torture is one of those.
I find myself agreeing more and more with this remark by a poet friend: "The Bible is a wilderness. No one has ever read it."
Yesterday, Andrew Sullivan noted a Pew poll which found that American Christians are more likely to condone torture than their secular compatriots. Among the general public, 63% of survey respondents approved of torture in at least some circumstances. 66% of white Protestants condoned torture, though Roman Catholics left them in the dust with a whopping 72% supporting the use of torture. Among those identifying themselves as secular, 52% approved of toruture in some cases. Besides that 41% of secular respondents said that toruture should never be used, while only 32% of the general public, 31% of white protestants, and 26% of Catholics agreed. (Catholic teaching, BTW, holds that torture is never justified. There are times when blindly obeying the Vatican wouldn't be such a bad thing.)
It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that the godly advocates of torture also rail against moral relativism in contemporary culture.
As a Christian, I find this depressing, but not surprising. There is, of course, no shortage of evidence that religiosity doesn't necessarily coincide with humane behavior, and that religion can be bent to the service of nationalistic or factional ends. These are truly ecumenical sins.
As undeniable as these things are, I still wrestle with them. For as long as I've participated in Christian communities, I've heard the preaching and the scriptures and come away wondering "Is ANYBODY actually listening to this?" Even as a kid, I couldn't help thinking that the world, starting with the church, would be a much different place if people did. Of course, many biblical writers wondered the same thing. I don't know whether that is a consolation or a cause for deeper frustration.
Obviously some people pay attention, and I think they make the world a better place. I know too that no one's faith is perfect, and that we all may twist it to serve our personal agendas. But you would hope we would have learned something from occasions when nations comfortably balanced the gospel in one hand with slavery, genocide, or imperialism in the other. As Paul says at one point, people may argue about what is or isn't sin, but there are some acts that are sinful beyond any question. I believe torture is one of those.
I find myself agreeing more and more with this remark by a poet friend: "The Bible is a wilderness. No one has ever read it."
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
FTR Goes to the Movies!
Came across a couple of interesting fish videos recently and will let those do the talking today.
Remember the Sturgeon Cam at LSSU I linked a while back? The Virgina DNR has a shad cam to monitor runs on the James river. It shows stills rather than real time video, but the picture does refresh every ten seconds. Interesting to see what passes by, though the action can be slow for long stretches. Check it out.
This one has me wondering if I ought to overhaul my fishing strategy. Flashlights are cheaper than flyrods, after all.
Remember the Sturgeon Cam at LSSU I linked a while back? The Virgina DNR has a shad cam to monitor runs on the James river. It shows stills rather than real time video, but the picture does refresh every ten seconds. Interesting to see what passes by, though the action can be slow for long stretches. Check it out.
This one has me wondering if I ought to overhaul my fishing strategy. Flashlights are cheaper than flyrods, after all.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Paying (a lot) to Play
Midcurrent.com links to an article about a new wave of upscale sportsman's retirement communities. Situated in prime outdoor destinations, these enclaves offer "the wealthiest generation of retired people...ever" an opportunity to live out their retirement in genteel rusticity. As Marshall at Midcurrent remarks, we've come a long way from the days when going to "camp" meant holing up a toiletless cabin in the Adirondacks or gathering at Grandad's deer cabin.
We're talking about country club angling in the truest sense. At one of these outfits, The Snake River Sporting Club of Jackson Hole, WY, homesites begin at $1.25 Million. Residents will pay a one-time membership fee of $125,000, then $8,600 annual dues afterwards. Not cheap, but with that outlay comes fine fishing and hiking at your doorstep, a fitness spa, a golf course, and an equestrian center. Members also have at their disposal a lodge built in "the style of national park lodges from the 1940s, making the lodge look as if it's been part of Jackson Hole for years," and offering "fine dining, the pro shop, [and] luxurious locker rooms." To ensure clients get the most out of their fishing or hiking experience, the club offers not guides but "personal ambassadors." At the SRSC, its website promises, "you can be a pioneer, an adventurer and a cowboy—all in a single day."
Clearly, "camp" is not the only word whose meaning has changed lately.
The phenomenon of wealthy sports paying to enjoy the thrills of the outdoors while experiencing none of its privations has long been a reliable source of comic fodder; places like the SRSC may simply infuse it with new levels of unreality. But the truth is, something similar occurs all along the economic spectrum. Getting away from things increasingly involves taking more things with us. Some of us have a streamside fitness spa, some just have the Cabelas catalogue. Either is an invitation to excess.
My retirement fantasy is living with Kristine in a small cabin somewhere in the vicinity of a trout stream with a shelf of good books, a garden, and some woods for wandering. I'd like my life to be a simplifying, a process of reducing to essentials. In the present, there have been many opportunities to simplify that I've passed up, it's true, but the goal remains. It's something you can work for week to week and year by year, sort of like saving for at lot at Lake Exclusion.
We're talking about country club angling in the truest sense. At one of these outfits, The Snake River Sporting Club of Jackson Hole, WY, homesites begin at $1.25 Million. Residents will pay a one-time membership fee of $125,000, then $8,600 annual dues afterwards. Not cheap, but with that outlay comes fine fishing and hiking at your doorstep, a fitness spa, a golf course, and an equestrian center. Members also have at their disposal a lodge built in "the style of national park lodges from the 1940s, making the lodge look as if it's been part of Jackson Hole for years," and offering "fine dining, the pro shop, [and] luxurious locker rooms." To ensure clients get the most out of their fishing or hiking experience, the club offers not guides but "personal ambassadors." At the SRSC, its website promises, "you can be a pioneer, an adventurer and a cowboy—all in a single day."
Clearly, "camp" is not the only word whose meaning has changed lately.
The phenomenon of wealthy sports paying to enjoy the thrills of the outdoors while experiencing none of its privations has long been a reliable source of comic fodder; places like the SRSC may simply infuse it with new levels of unreality. But the truth is, something similar occurs all along the economic spectrum. Getting away from things increasingly involves taking more things with us. Some of us have a streamside fitness spa, some just have the Cabelas catalogue. Either is an invitation to excess.
My retirement fantasy is living with Kristine in a small cabin somewhere in the vicinity of a trout stream with a shelf of good books, a garden, and some woods for wandering. I'd like my life to be a simplifying, a process of reducing to essentials. In the present, there have been many opportunities to simplify that I've passed up, it's true, but the goal remains. It's something you can work for week to week and year by year, sort of like saving for at lot at Lake Exclusion.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Rip the Lake Up and Start Again
From the Traverse City Record-Eagle:
Kneff Lake is by design a popular fishing spot in Crawford County.
It's a round, 13-acre lake on federal forest land, tucked into the hills southeast of Grayling and designated as a trout fishery. A campground and sandy beach draw visitors all summer, officials said....
The Michigan Department of Natural Resources plans to kill the lake's existing fish with a chemical treatment. The lake then will be restocked with rainbow trout.
The lake's trout population is losing out to a high number of perch and sucker fish, said DNR senior fisheries biologist Steve Sendek.
Officials will treat the lake with two parts-per-million of rotenone, a common agricultural insecticide that is toxic to fish. The chemical is not dangerous to humans or livestock and detoxifies when exposed to sunlight and air, officials said.
"It's very specific. It affects the oxygen transportation system that occurs in the gills of fish," Sendek said. Read it all.
Kneff Lake was stocked with grayling a few years back in an attempt to restore the now-extirpated fish that put northern Michigan on the map as an angling destination. Apparently that didn't work out so well.
I have mixed feelings about these operations. What are the reasons the trout and grayling populations declined? Inadequate habitat? Excessive fishing pressure? Inability to compete with the perch and suckers?
For sure, rainbow trout were not native to the lake.
If Kneff was historically a coldwater fishery, I can see some justification for such an operation. If not, I don't know if these "reclamations" are a reasonable course of action. Much as I love trout fishing, I am skeptical about establishing artificial trout fisheries in waters marginally suited to them. True, trout were not native to many of the streams in lower Michigan where they now live, but obviously they thrive in many of them. I'd rather see fisheries management resources directed toward maintaining and improving those.
Kneff Lake is by design a popular fishing spot in Crawford County.
It's a round, 13-acre lake on federal forest land, tucked into the hills southeast of Grayling and designated as a trout fishery. A campground and sandy beach draw visitors all summer, officials said....
The Michigan Department of Natural Resources plans to kill the lake's existing fish with a chemical treatment. The lake then will be restocked with rainbow trout.
The lake's trout population is losing out to a high number of perch and sucker fish, said DNR senior fisheries biologist Steve Sendek.
Officials will treat the lake with two parts-per-million of rotenone, a common agricultural insecticide that is toxic to fish. The chemical is not dangerous to humans or livestock and detoxifies when exposed to sunlight and air, officials said.
"It's very specific. It affects the oxygen transportation system that occurs in the gills of fish," Sendek said. Read it all.
Kneff Lake was stocked with grayling a few years back in an attempt to restore the now-extirpated fish that put northern Michigan on the map as an angling destination. Apparently that didn't work out so well.
I have mixed feelings about these operations. What are the reasons the trout and grayling populations declined? Inadequate habitat? Excessive fishing pressure? Inability to compete with the perch and suckers?
For sure, rainbow trout were not native to the lake.
If Kneff was historically a coldwater fishery, I can see some justification for such an operation. If not, I don't know if these "reclamations" are a reasonable course of action. Much as I love trout fishing, I am skeptical about establishing artificial trout fisheries in waters marginally suited to them. True, trout were not native to many of the streams in lower Michigan where they now live, but obviously they thrive in many of them. I'd rather see fisheries management resources directed toward maintaining and improving those.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Down with Fish
Stumbled across Down for Repairs, a blog by a fellow Michigander (from the westside...lucky son of a bass) with a great regular feature...Fish Story Fridays. It's just what it says. The stories are compiled here. He invites others to do likewise on their blogs, and I may try to do that. Do I smell a new carnival in the making???
On Friday, I noticed that our daffodils were poking through the mulch under the pear tree outside my office. A bit more ominously, I saw bags of topsoil and mulch stacked outside the local grocery store. Not that I have anything against those items( I expect to buy a good bit of both soon), but they are a reminder that my lawnmower will soon be a close companion once again.
Spring has its compensations though. On the Thursday after next, I'll be heading to Baldwin to chase steelhead on the Pere Marquette for a couple days. I'm in for a couple of anxiousand distracted weeks of weather watching, tackle cleaning, and rainbow daydreams. I promise not to natter about it here too much.
On Friday, I noticed that our daffodils were poking through the mulch under the pear tree outside my office. A bit more ominously, I saw bags of topsoil and mulch stacked outside the local grocery store. Not that I have anything against those items( I expect to buy a good bit of both soon), but they are a reminder that my lawnmower will soon be a close companion once again.
Spring has its compensations though. On the Thursday after next, I'll be heading to Baldwin to chase steelhead on the Pere Marquette for a couple days. I'm in for a couple of anxiousand distracted weeks of weather watching, tackle cleaning, and rainbow daydreams. I promise not to natter about it here too much.
Friday, March 17, 2006
See Me, See my Cat
My new imac comes with PhotoBooth. So now I can catblog on Fridays. Provided Pavlov cooperates, as he sort of did today.
Swamp Things, Pt. 6
What I've related here is admittedly a story of failure and frustration. But I feel no embarrassment or regret about these episodes. If they took a bit of my ego, they also taught me a few things. One of these things was a sense of humility about the sport. Knowing every inch of the stream along my street, and very rarely failing to connect with some trout, I considered myself something of a hotshot, worthy of at least local media attention. But the Swamp Things reminded me there would always be a fish or a river that could kick my butt.
Maybe more importantly, these futile struggles dramatized emphatically that the rewards of fishing do not accumulate in proportion to the percentage of fish landed. Every encounter with a Swamper brown was exhilarating. And every time I lost one, I felt like I had imploded. When I replayed the battles in my mind days later, though, the exhilaration of the fight stood out more than the numbness following the loss; the brute power of the fish more than the snapping of my flimsy line. Thinking of all the fishing I've done since then, successful or not, the pleasures are what stand out. Some are bittersweet, but only the bitterness tends to fade.
My pursuit of the Swamp Things also provided an early lesson in the value of seeking out what is marginal, overlooked, or discounted. In much of my life away from the water as well as on it, I have gravitated toward such things, people, and places. The main stream has not often been a comfortable or satisfying place for me. I can’t honestly say that my teenage quest for big brown trout instilled that preference in me, but in retrospect it does seem like a good small scale embodiment of the life I’ve lived and the reasons for living it. In a place most of my neighbors barely knew about and probably wouldn't have gone near, I found engrossing adventure and haunting mystery. I drew from there certain understandings that shaped the way I would approach all waters and fish afterward. Likewise, things that usually escape the notice or estimation of people have often provided me with unexpected and precious sorts of joy, fulfillment, or wisdom. Some may even confront one with currents of unsettling power.
Finis
Maybe more importantly, these futile struggles dramatized emphatically that the rewards of fishing do not accumulate in proportion to the percentage of fish landed. Every encounter with a Swamper brown was exhilarating. And every time I lost one, I felt like I had imploded. When I replayed the battles in my mind days later, though, the exhilaration of the fight stood out more than the numbness following the loss; the brute power of the fish more than the snapping of my flimsy line. Thinking of all the fishing I've done since then, successful or not, the pleasures are what stand out. Some are bittersweet, but only the bitterness tends to fade.
My pursuit of the Swamp Things also provided an early lesson in the value of seeking out what is marginal, overlooked, or discounted. In much of my life away from the water as well as on it, I have gravitated toward such things, people, and places. The main stream has not often been a comfortable or satisfying place for me. I can’t honestly say that my teenage quest for big brown trout instilled that preference in me, but in retrospect it does seem like a good small scale embodiment of the life I’ve lived and the reasons for living it. In a place most of my neighbors barely knew about and probably wouldn't have gone near, I found engrossing adventure and haunting mystery. I drew from there certain understandings that shaped the way I would approach all waters and fish afterward. Likewise, things that usually escape the notice or estimation of people have often provided me with unexpected and precious sorts of joy, fulfillment, or wisdom. Some may even confront one with currents of unsettling power.
Finis
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Swamp Things, Pt. 5
I did very nearly catch one of these bruisers. On a night either just before or after I graduated from high school, under a clearing twilit sky, I worked a straight, calf-deep run dotted with piles of brush that had snagged on sunken limbs. As my crawler drifted past one of these brushpiles the line paused and I struck to feel the stolid, unyielding pull of Swamp Thing brown. He ran upstream, taking line from me, but I stopped him near the head of the run and worked him back, steering him carefully away from the brush. I gained maybe five feet of line before he took it back, but again I stopped him, and when I began reeling I brought him even closer. We seesawed like that for a while, though each of the fish's runs were shorter, and I got him a little nearer after each. Eventually I had him within six feet. I began to imagine that photo of him and me in the sports section of the Gazette, and craned to get a look at what Kalamazooans would soon be admiring. I couldn't make the fish out clearly in the murky flow, but every time he shook I saw a bronze flash the size of a volleyball. But even if I couldn't see him, he was tiring, coming in slowly but surely. Finally, I thought, I would best one of the Swamp Things.
Of course, you know what happened.
How it happened is that when I turned to look for a spot to beach my trophy, he got a second wind and took off upstream in a deliberate, unhurried run that made me think he wasn't terribly concerned about being caught. I tried to stop him but barely managed to slow him down. Soon he had pulled the line through one of the small brushpiles in the run where it snagged, then almost immediately went slack. I'd been congratulating myself on playing the fish so well, only to find the fish wasn't the one being played.
You may ask: just how big were these fish? Based on trout I've caught since then, I'd guess they were near and above twenty inches long. Very respectable fish anywhere (and a rare catch for most of us), though usually not unmanageable unless you're using very light tackle or fishing in very tight quarters--which on these occasions I was. Given the size of the stream, I was never going to get a chance to play one of these sharks in open water. I did have control over the tackle I used, but almost always fished light. I first encountered these fish using six 6 lb. test line on a light spincasting rod, though later came to prefer 4 lb. on an ultralight Shakespeare spinning outfit. The light line allowed a smoother drift and was less visible in the usually clear water. The light rods had the sensitivity to pick up the lightest bites (and, frequently, the Swamp Things bit lighter than much smaller fish). A few times I assaulted the Swamp with my 6 foot medium duty spinning rod and 10 lb. test line, but I never hooked one of the Swamp Things with the heavy weaponry. Besides, using it in that small stream felt like trying to do caligraphy with the point of a shovel.
(Concludes Tomorrow)
Of course, you know what happened.
How it happened is that when I turned to look for a spot to beach my trophy, he got a second wind and took off upstream in a deliberate, unhurried run that made me think he wasn't terribly concerned about being caught. I tried to stop him but barely managed to slow him down. Soon he had pulled the line through one of the small brushpiles in the run where it snagged, then almost immediately went slack. I'd been congratulating myself on playing the fish so well, only to find the fish wasn't the one being played.
You may ask: just how big were these fish? Based on trout I've caught since then, I'd guess they were near and above twenty inches long. Very respectable fish anywhere (and a rare catch for most of us), though usually not unmanageable unless you're using very light tackle or fishing in very tight quarters--which on these occasions I was. Given the size of the stream, I was never going to get a chance to play one of these sharks in open water. I did have control over the tackle I used, but almost always fished light. I first encountered these fish using six 6 lb. test line on a light spincasting rod, though later came to prefer 4 lb. on an ultralight Shakespeare spinning outfit. The light line allowed a smoother drift and was less visible in the usually clear water. The light rods had the sensitivity to pick up the lightest bites (and, frequently, the Swamp Things bit lighter than much smaller fish). A few times I assaulted the Swamp with my 6 foot medium duty spinning rod and 10 lb. test line, but I never hooked one of the Swamp Things with the heavy weaponry. Besides, using it in that small stream felt like trying to do caligraphy with the point of a shovel.
(Concludes Tomorrow)
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Swamp Things, Pt. 4
Two or three times during each of the next few seasons, I would hook trout that could have swallowed the ones I caught most of the time and still been hungry. And every time, they would thrash me soundly and leave me standing with my line limp and my stomach at my knees. I swore that if I landed one of these bruisers, I would have someone take a picture of me with the fish and submit it to the local paper where (I believed) it would surely make the sports section. That never happened, but the encounters I did have with the Swamp Things left me with a large mental portfolio of tragic portraits. Here are a few.
A long bend just above the run where I'd hooked my first Swamp Thing had been productive for smaller trout in the past, but with deep water on its outside edge, sheltered by overhanging alder limbs, it had big trout potential. Fishing early one evening as rainclouds were creeping in from the west, I tossed a silver Roostertail spinner to the upper edge of the bend and let it slide under the alders on the retrieve. A heavy fish slammed the lure, thrashed twice near the surface, then dived to the bottom of the hole. Soon I felt dead weight, and this time that's all it was. Hoping the trout was just bulldogging me, I yanked the rod from side to side a few times to provoke it to run again. Nothing happened. I stood there for several minutes, hoping that somehow the fish was still hooked. The onset of rain didn't budge me. Putting aside my fear of watersnakes, I even reached underwater and probed along the sunken alder branches and roots hoping to touch the fish and pull it out by the tail, if necessary. Eventually I had to face the facts. The fish had likely hung my lure up on a root or sunken limb and bolted. I cut my line and walked home in the rain.
Once I decided to skip some of the less productive water in the lower reaches of the Swamp branch and enter the stream at a gap in the brush upstream. I wanted to target the pool at a sharp bend just above this gap. I tried to step into the water stealthily, but my boots slid down the steep, muddy bank and plunged in like depth charges. Surely I'd spooked any fish that might be in the pool, I thought. But it was a good looking spot, so I pitched my nightcrawler in and hoped there was a fish there more hungry than cautious. On the first cast, a very large trout hit the worm. My rod flailed like a buggy whip as it circled the pool a couple times, then slipped off. Holding my bare hook, I remembered reading an article in which the writer mentioned that he sometimes hooked a large fish several times in quick succession before landing it. Could it happen here? I rebaited and cast again. About three drifts later, I got a solid pull on the line; it was unfortunately not solid enough. I quickly landed a fourteen inch brown. On any other occasion, I would have considered it a nice fish, and it was more than I deserved after my clumsy wading, but that night I only felt cheated.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Swamp Things, Pt. 3
That evening began well. In the first few holes above where the branches rejoined, fishing with nightcrawlers, I'd taken several browns of ten to thirteen inches. The pleasures of the evening didn't come entirely from the end of my line. The warm, humid air, infused with the scent of drying loam and honeysuckle, contrasted pleasantly with the cool flow along my legs. For me to this day, when the fishing is very good or promises to be, all the sensations of the river world become more vivid.
Eagerly, even greedily expecting more fish, I approached the deepest spot in the Swamp, a narrow channel about four feet deep in its center. I'm not sure if I had caught anything there before, but it seemed like exactly the sort of spot that would harbor a big trout. I flipped a nightcrawler to the head of the run with my Zebco spincaster and let it drift back to me, ticking the bottom every foot or so. Then the line stopped. I pulled back and felt only dead weight. Thinking I may have hooked a sunken log, I dropped the rod tip to let tension off the line, but before the line hit the water, that weight lurched toward the right bank, then slammed back to the left. After a few more of these ricochets, the fish turned toward me and charged downstream. I reeled frantically to take up the slack line, but once I had, the monster on the other end thrashed twice, then snapped my line.
To appreciate the feeling of losing an unexpectedly large fish, imagine that at the moment that fish broke free, all the oxygen in the atmosphere was sucked away, leaving you stunned and gasping, your balance wavering, your mind beginning to freeze. Unlike in the case of instantaneous oxygen depletion, your equilibrium returns, slowly, after the loss of a fish, yet a shadow will remain over the rest of the day.
I was crushed after this Swamp Thing ditched me. It was by far the largest trout I'd ever hooked in the creek. A once in a lifetime fish, I feared, the like of which I might never fight again. As it turns out, my fears were unfounded, though sometimes I would question whether that was fortunate.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Swamp Things, Pt. 2
Been having some computer problems and am in process of getting a new machine. New installments may be slow in coming, but come they will
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A county road bisected my little subdivision, and just below where it crossed the creek, the flow split into two channels. The smaller one, splitting to the north, continued picturesquely across the immaculate lawns, while the larger wound southward through an uncut phalanx of alders bordering a seasonal wetland to the south. On the lawns north of the Swamp branch, the ground was spongy in dry weather, and in spring, half an inch or so of water would gurgle up with each step. The stream itself in the Swamp was no more than eight feet wide, but much of it was at least two feet deep, with portions of it close to four. Upstream, few spots went as deep as two. You could fish portions of the Swamp without wading by dapping your bait though a break in the alders--I had done that before and caught a couple nice trout doing it. But that left about a hundred yards of water out of reach. Given the lack of access, the inhospitability of the terrain, and the overabundance of watersnakes in the area, few people bothered fishing the Swamp. Once I had a pair of waders, though, I began exploring it regularly, wading up into it from where the branches of the stream rejoined.
I know I fished the Swamp with moderate success a few times in that first wader-clad year, but the encounters that burned this place into my memory commenced a year or two later. I had learned early in my trouting career that the best fishing of the season usually occurred on early summer evenings after a thunderstorm had passed. Heavy rains dump lots of food into a stream and cloud the water enough for large brown trout to venture confidently out of their lairs. When I'd done my post-cloudburst fishing up in the country clubbish stretch, my definition of "large" was about fourteen inches. That changed the summer after my freshman year of high school when I first fished the Swamp branch while it ran swollen and silted.
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A county road bisected my little subdivision, and just below where it crossed the creek, the flow split into two channels. The smaller one, splitting to the north, continued picturesquely across the immaculate lawns, while the larger wound southward through an uncut phalanx of alders bordering a seasonal wetland to the south. On the lawns north of the Swamp branch, the ground was spongy in dry weather, and in spring, half an inch or so of water would gurgle up with each step. The stream itself in the Swamp was no more than eight feet wide, but much of it was at least two feet deep, with portions of it close to four. Upstream, few spots went as deep as two. You could fish portions of the Swamp without wading by dapping your bait though a break in the alders--I had done that before and caught a couple nice trout doing it. But that left about a hundred yards of water out of reach. Given the lack of access, the inhospitability of the terrain, and the overabundance of watersnakes in the area, few people bothered fishing the Swamp. Once I had a pair of waders, though, I began exploring it regularly, wading up into it from where the branches of the stream rejoined.
I know I fished the Swamp with moderate success a few times in that first wader-clad year, but the encounters that burned this place into my memory commenced a year or two later. I had learned early in my trouting career that the best fishing of the season usually occurred on early summer evenings after a thunderstorm had passed. Heavy rains dump lots of food into a stream and cloud the water enough for large brown trout to venture confidently out of their lairs. When I'd done my post-cloudburst fishing up in the country clubbish stretch, my definition of "large" was about fourteen inches. That changed the summer after my freshman year of high school when I first fished the Swamp branch while it ran swollen and silted.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Swamp Things, Pt. 1
What follows is a memoir of tangling with some big brown trout in a small Michigan stream back when I was a teenager. It will appear serially over the next week.
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I grew up in a sliver of a subdivision outside Kalamazoo, Michigan, built along a single lane that curved, in approximately the shape of a fishhook, along the edges of cornfields and woodlots. Single story brick ranch houses lined each side of the lane. Those on the north side were without exception smaller and cheaper. Not only were the houses on the south side larger, but they sat on sprawling four acre lots, perched on the edge of a hill that looked down on a fine little trout stream.
My family lived on the north side, but that didn't stop me from fishing the stream devotedly. Most of the families who lived on the south side didn't mind local kids traipsing around their lawns trying to hook a trout or two. I went to school, played, and fished with some of their children, so a lot of them knew me pretty well anyway.
People use the phrase "Country Club Angling" to describe fishing in pastoral settings among refined and well heeled sportsmen, and it pretty well characterizes those environs where I cut my fishing teeth. Walking the bank with my can of nightcrawlers, I could see large, immaculate homes surrounded by large, well-tended lawns with sedulously trimmed bushes, quaint outbuildings, and occasional extrusions of cement statuary. It wasn't hard to imagine myself at one of those Scottish fishing estates I read about in Field and Stream where you cast for salmon in the shadows of ruined castles, looking smart in your tweed jacket and tie.
It wasn't the environment most fishermen associate with wild, wary trout, but plenty were there if you knew where to look. Though obviously stocked at one point in time, hatchery trout had not been planted there for decades. (It has been replanted more recently). And despite a heavy harvest of trout in the spring by both locals and visitors from the city (not to mention the occasional fish kill from lawn chemicals leaching in to the water), the creek provided reliably good fishing year after year. If you've ever seen a quality trout stream, you'd understand why. The creek has lots of clean gravel runs for spawning, riffles full of sheltering pockets, and an abundance of downed logs and brushpiles left from the woods that once lined its banks. Most days, the water has a glasslike clarity with none of the milky tone common in other southern Michigan streams. Looking down as you wade, you can easily make out individual grains of sand on the bottom, as well as trout bold or foolish enough to venture from the safety of brushpiles or boulders.
Almost any day, you could count on catching at least one or two trout, if you put in enough time. A good Saturday morning swing early in the season would often produce half a dozen. Under ideal conditions, double digits were not out of the question. You could get skunked, of course, as you can anywhere, but by my midteens, that seldom happened to me. The only complaint one might have about the fish was that most of them were pretty small, almost invariably in the 8-12" range. The occasional 14-incher would come to hand, and on a couple of occasions I hooked and lost fish that were probably over 16. At least that's how it was in the Country Club section. I hardly fished any where else until I acquired my first pair of waders when I was about thirteen. No longer having to stand on the bank to fish, I began to explore what locals called The Swamp, a neglected, muck-bounded, brush-choked arm of the creek mostly invisible from the fine homes along the street. There, I tangled--repeatedly--with large trout that I never saw yet never forgot, heavyweight brawlers with a taste for nightcrawlers that I dubbed the Swamp Things.
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I grew up in a sliver of a subdivision outside Kalamazoo, Michigan, built along a single lane that curved, in approximately the shape of a fishhook, along the edges of cornfields and woodlots. Single story brick ranch houses lined each side of the lane. Those on the north side were without exception smaller and cheaper. Not only were the houses on the south side larger, but they sat on sprawling four acre lots, perched on the edge of a hill that looked down on a fine little trout stream.
My family lived on the north side, but that didn't stop me from fishing the stream devotedly. Most of the families who lived on the south side didn't mind local kids traipsing around their lawns trying to hook a trout or two. I went to school, played, and fished with some of their children, so a lot of them knew me pretty well anyway.
People use the phrase "Country Club Angling" to describe fishing in pastoral settings among refined and well heeled sportsmen, and it pretty well characterizes those environs where I cut my fishing teeth. Walking the bank with my can of nightcrawlers, I could see large, immaculate homes surrounded by large, well-tended lawns with sedulously trimmed bushes, quaint outbuildings, and occasional extrusions of cement statuary. It wasn't hard to imagine myself at one of those Scottish fishing estates I read about in Field and Stream where you cast for salmon in the shadows of ruined castles, looking smart in your tweed jacket and tie.
It wasn't the environment most fishermen associate with wild, wary trout, but plenty were there if you knew where to look. Though obviously stocked at one point in time, hatchery trout had not been planted there for decades. (It has been replanted more recently). And despite a heavy harvest of trout in the spring by both locals and visitors from the city (not to mention the occasional fish kill from lawn chemicals leaching in to the water), the creek provided reliably good fishing year after year. If you've ever seen a quality trout stream, you'd understand why. The creek has lots of clean gravel runs for spawning, riffles full of sheltering pockets, and an abundance of downed logs and brushpiles left from the woods that once lined its banks. Most days, the water has a glasslike clarity with none of the milky tone common in other southern Michigan streams. Looking down as you wade, you can easily make out individual grains of sand on the bottom, as well as trout bold or foolish enough to venture from the safety of brushpiles or boulders.
Almost any day, you could count on catching at least one or two trout, if you put in enough time. A good Saturday morning swing early in the season would often produce half a dozen. Under ideal conditions, double digits were not out of the question. You could get skunked, of course, as you can anywhere, but by my midteens, that seldom happened to me. The only complaint one might have about the fish was that most of them were pretty small, almost invariably in the 8-12" range. The occasional 14-incher would come to hand, and on a couple of occasions I hooked and lost fish that were probably over 16. At least that's how it was in the Country Club section. I hardly fished any where else until I acquired my first pair of waders when I was about thirteen. No longer having to stand on the bank to fish, I began to explore what locals called The Swamp, a neglected, muck-bounded, brush-choked arm of the creek mostly invisible from the fine homes along the street. There, I tangled--repeatedly--with large trout that I never saw yet never forgot, heavyweight brawlers with a taste for nightcrawlers that I dubbed the Swamp Things.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Cloistered Existence
Kristine and I got back last night from a couple of days at St. Gregory's Abbey, an Anglican Benedictine monastery near Three Rivers, Michigan. We've been there before and will certainly return. It's a remarkable place for a number of reasons.
First and foremost of is the peacefulness of the place. The abbey grounds include over 200 acres of forest, set within a quiet farming area west of Three Rivers. Traffic is minimal, and most days, the noisiest thing to occur at the abbey is the ringing of the bell for the offices (i.e., gatherings for prayer) and mass. Meals are silent except for one monk reading to the company from a book. At the offices, quiet, measured chanting seems to enrich the silence rather than break it. Between offices (or instead of them if you like), you may wander the trails through the woods where wind and birdsong provide the only audible distractions. It would take some effort to keep up with the news of the world there. There are no televisions in the guest quarters and only one internet hookup (bring your own laptop). The well stocked library receives no newspapers. You could go to your car and listen to its radio, I suppose. The idea actually occurred to me Monday morning, but somehow it seemed out of place.
The facilities themselves are very comfortable and pleasant. Kristine and I stayed in a spacious suite that cost only what we cared to donate (though we were generous). It overlooked a large mown field where deer and turkeys put in regular appearances. The guesthouse is clean and modern, very conducive to relaxation and reflection. It occurred to me that it would make a great writing retreat. The library mentioned above would keep the most demanding readers busy for a long time. There are a wide variety of religious titles, naturally, but also impressive collections in literature (and literary theory, of all things), history, psychology, science, philosophy, gender studies, and probably more that I didn't get time to look though. In the area near the buildings, brick walkways wind through gardens and monuments.
And of course, there are the men in the community. If you go, try to be there for dinner on Sunday night if at all possible, since that is the only time that monks interact freely with the guests. They're all fascinating people who can talk about nearly anything and who clearly stay well connected to the outside world despite their isolation and attention to the immaterial realm. Last Sunday being Oscar night, the part of the table I where I sat got into a conversation about the nominated films and films generally. I think those guys see more movies than I do (obviously the monk's quarters have at least one TV). They're also rabid Simpsons fans. One talked about blogs he likes to visit (which, sadly, don't include this one). I should add too that they break out beer for Sunday's supper. In the finest Benedictine tradition, they plan to begin brewing their own in the near future.
Spiritually, a visit there is quite moving. This time around, I found it no so much soothing as unsettling. It made me look (perhaps because of the absence of external distractions) inward more intensely than usual, and to consider some things that have troubled me lately. While I don't know if those issues are settled, I think I do have a better understanding of why I struggle with them. That's a blessing, I guess, but one that reminds me that the word from which we derive blessing can also mean to hit. If, as one biblical writer says, "it is good to have been chastised," I ought to be feeling pretty good right now.
While I was there, I finished the fishing tale I've been working on for a while (or rather, started in January and then forgot until last week). I'm going to take a couple days to edit it, but when I return here, I'll begin posting it in installments.
Tag: Spirituality
First and foremost of is the peacefulness of the place. The abbey grounds include over 200 acres of forest, set within a quiet farming area west of Three Rivers. Traffic is minimal, and most days, the noisiest thing to occur at the abbey is the ringing of the bell for the offices (i.e., gatherings for prayer) and mass. Meals are silent except for one monk reading to the company from a book. At the offices, quiet, measured chanting seems to enrich the silence rather than break it. Between offices (or instead of them if you like), you may wander the trails through the woods where wind and birdsong provide the only audible distractions. It would take some effort to keep up with the news of the world there. There are no televisions in the guest quarters and only one internet hookup (bring your own laptop). The well stocked library receives no newspapers. You could go to your car and listen to its radio, I suppose. The idea actually occurred to me Monday morning, but somehow it seemed out of place.
The facilities themselves are very comfortable and pleasant. Kristine and I stayed in a spacious suite that cost only what we cared to donate (though we were generous). It overlooked a large mown field where deer and turkeys put in regular appearances. The guesthouse is clean and modern, very conducive to relaxation and reflection. It occurred to me that it would make a great writing retreat. The library mentioned above would keep the most demanding readers busy for a long time. There are a wide variety of religious titles, naturally, but also impressive collections in literature (and literary theory, of all things), history, psychology, science, philosophy, gender studies, and probably more that I didn't get time to look though. In the area near the buildings, brick walkways wind through gardens and monuments.
And of course, there are the men in the community. If you go, try to be there for dinner on Sunday night if at all possible, since that is the only time that monks interact freely with the guests. They're all fascinating people who can talk about nearly anything and who clearly stay well connected to the outside world despite their isolation and attention to the immaterial realm. Last Sunday being Oscar night, the part of the table I where I sat got into a conversation about the nominated films and films generally. I think those guys see more movies than I do (obviously the monk's quarters have at least one TV). They're also rabid Simpsons fans. One talked about blogs he likes to visit (which, sadly, don't include this one). I should add too that they break out beer for Sunday's supper. In the finest Benedictine tradition, they plan to begin brewing their own in the near future.
Spiritually, a visit there is quite moving. This time around, I found it no so much soothing as unsettling. It made me look (perhaps because of the absence of external distractions) inward more intensely than usual, and to consider some things that have troubled me lately. While I don't know if those issues are settled, I think I do have a better understanding of why I struggle with them. That's a blessing, I guess, but one that reminds me that the word from which we derive blessing can also mean to hit. If, as one biblical writer says, "it is good to have been chastised," I ought to be feeling pretty good right now.
While I was there, I finished the fishing tale I've been working on for a while (or rather, started in January and then forgot until last week). I'm going to take a couple days to edit it, but when I return here, I'll begin posting it in installments.
Tag: Spirituality
Friday, March 03, 2006
Classroom Cussing
As part of their coursework, my students respond to discussion questions on a bulletin board on the class web page. Yesterday I got an especially thought provoking response in a thread about sexist language in hip-hop music. The writer was actually not addressing that directly, but reflecting on the classroom discussion that followed a presentation on Monday about how female musicians respond to that language. He lamented that during the discussion, his classmates freely used offensive language even when they weren't quoting from the lyrics under consideration, many of which were quite raunchy. "Why," he asked, "when we rightly condemn someone ing women bitches and hos, do we accept people saying fuck and shit and goddam? If we can take trouble to say 'the n-word,' we can say 'the f-word'."
Honestly, I hadn't really noticed the profanity. I heard it (although I don't remember as much as the student who wrote to me did), but was more focused on the discussion taking place among class members. Which was actually quite thoughtful. I like to let the students who make a presentation run the discussion that follows. Ideally, I slide into the background and let the class learn from themselves. Not that I tune out altogether. I have to watch the time, and occasionally direct the discussion back on track, but often I can simply be an observer rather than a central authority figure.
Another classroom incident last week suggests there is a pattern here to consider. The discussion following a presentation in a different class on Wednesday included an outburst of profanity that proved momentarily disruptive--lots of titters and blushing ensued. I didn't say anything, though, because the discussion quickly moved forward, at the prompting of students. I didn't dwell on it much until I read the message I mentioned above.
Should I draw a line here, and if so, where? I wouldn't accept gratuitous profanity in student papers (not that I see much), nor would it be accepted in most workplace settings, at least in the course of official business. I do not assign readings or show films that contain what I consider excessive profanity (there's a point where it becomes a distraction), although some of the films that we do watch get a bit blue. I actually can think of very few works that I would exclude on grounds of language, but I am conscious that there are some I should. So I'm not indifferent about the matter. I just haven't had to give it much thought. Profanity has never been much of an issue in my classroom. I've occasionally had to call people out for ethnic slurs or homophobic comments, but not for dropping the f-bomb.
In my classes, I want spontaneity and free interaction among students during discussion. I can tolerate some cussing in the course of that. But my students also need to be aware of and observe the standards that apply in academic and professional discourse. I'd assume most students implicitly understand what those are, but perhaps that assumption is less warranted than I'd thought. In my view, a well-run classroom is part carnival and part laboratory. Usually I'm concerned about the latter overwhelming the former. But there may be problems too in the former corrupting the latter.
I guess I have some thinking to do over spring break.
Tag: Education
Honestly, I hadn't really noticed the profanity. I heard it (although I don't remember as much as the student who wrote to me did), but was more focused on the discussion taking place among class members. Which was actually quite thoughtful. I like to let the students who make a presentation run the discussion that follows. Ideally, I slide into the background and let the class learn from themselves. Not that I tune out altogether. I have to watch the time, and occasionally direct the discussion back on track, but often I can simply be an observer rather than a central authority figure.
Another classroom incident last week suggests there is a pattern here to consider. The discussion following a presentation in a different class on Wednesday included an outburst of profanity that proved momentarily disruptive--lots of titters and blushing ensued. I didn't say anything, though, because the discussion quickly moved forward, at the prompting of students. I didn't dwell on it much until I read the message I mentioned above.
Should I draw a line here, and if so, where? I wouldn't accept gratuitous profanity in student papers (not that I see much), nor would it be accepted in most workplace settings, at least in the course of official business. I do not assign readings or show films that contain what I consider excessive profanity (there's a point where it becomes a distraction), although some of the films that we do watch get a bit blue. I actually can think of very few works that I would exclude on grounds of language, but I am conscious that there are some I should. So I'm not indifferent about the matter. I just haven't had to give it much thought. Profanity has never been much of an issue in my classroom. I've occasionally had to call people out for ethnic slurs or homophobic comments, but not for dropping the f-bomb.
In my classes, I want spontaneity and free interaction among students during discussion. I can tolerate some cussing in the course of that. But my students also need to be aware of and observe the standards that apply in academic and professional discourse. I'd assume most students implicitly understand what those are, but perhaps that assumption is less warranted than I'd thought. In my view, a well-run classroom is part carnival and part laboratory. Usually I'm concerned about the latter overwhelming the former. But there may be problems too in the former corrupting the latter.
I guess I have some thinking to do over spring break.
Tag: Education
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Getting Wet; Ashen Reflections
Has it really been a week since I've written?
A lot has been happening lately, including the adoption of a new fitness regimen--swimming. Kristine has been having a lot of hip pain recently because of stresses caused by jogging and yoga. Her doctor wants her stop those for a while, but said to keep up with aerobic exercise anyway, and reccomended swimming. So we gave the pool at the Washtenaw County Rec Center a try last Saturday and liked it--though my arms and neck were horribly sore until Tuesday. Kristine was fine--the yoga must have had some benefits too. We both got severe eye irritation from the chlorine, and bought swim goggles at Dunham's the other day. We'll try them out tonight, and if we come away without redeye, I expect we'll purchase memberships to the Rec. For at least a few weeks, the pool might be as close to a river as I'm going to get.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. I can't say I found it a very moving occasion, though, which is unusual. Lent is probably the church season I connect with most , and I look forward to it every year. Not so much this time around. I fasted yesterday, but can't say it had any particular meditative value, as it usually does, or that it felt like much of a discipline. I never felt any hungrier than I do a couple hours after a light lunch. Perhaps this was because I was "full" in another way, stuffed with what you might call psychological junk food. I've struggled with a few problems lately, and been distracted from nearly everything else. A lot of people say they turn to God in their troubles. In mine, I want to turn away from everything.
Maybe I should give up defensiveness and isolation for Lent.
Fortunately my spring break comes next week. Things are bound to get better.
A lot has been happening lately, including the adoption of a new fitness regimen--swimming. Kristine has been having a lot of hip pain recently because of stresses caused by jogging and yoga. Her doctor wants her stop those for a while, but said to keep up with aerobic exercise anyway, and reccomended swimming. So we gave the pool at the Washtenaw County Rec Center a try last Saturday and liked it--though my arms and neck were horribly sore until Tuesday. Kristine was fine--the yoga must have had some benefits too. We both got severe eye irritation from the chlorine, and bought swim goggles at Dunham's the other day. We'll try them out tonight, and if we come away without redeye, I expect we'll purchase memberships to the Rec. For at least a few weeks, the pool might be as close to a river as I'm going to get.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. I can't say I found it a very moving occasion, though, which is unusual. Lent is probably the church season I connect with most , and I look forward to it every year. Not so much this time around. I fasted yesterday, but can't say it had any particular meditative value, as it usually does, or that it felt like much of a discipline. I never felt any hungrier than I do a couple hours after a light lunch. Perhaps this was because I was "full" in another way, stuffed with what you might call psychological junk food. I've struggled with a few problems lately, and been distracted from nearly everything else. A lot of people say they turn to God in their troubles. In mine, I want to turn away from everything.
Maybe I should give up defensiveness and isolation for Lent.
Fortunately my spring break comes next week. Things are bound to get better.
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