The End of the Story

Today is Easter in the Eastern Orthodox church. Years ago, sometime during Lent, I was asked to give the homily at our church. To the surprise of the congregants, I began with the story of The Three Little Bears. I did this because everyone knows this story and everyone knows how it ends.

After finishing with the telling of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, I moved on to stories in general. Another reason I chose The Three Bears is that I know of there are a few other versions that not everyone knows. For example, "Goldilocks" is an old woman of foul character who breaks into the bears' house and helps herself to their table of food and beds. When the bears return and find her, she winds up impaled on the church steeple as an apparent reminder to keep out of others' houses. I then related this story and stories in general to Easter

I posed some questions to the congregants. How did Mary feel during the days between our Good Friday and Easter morning? How did the disciples pass their time? Today as we reread the Easter story it's easy to  overlook those aspects. Three days, however, is a long time to overlook. It's particularly easy to overlook when one knows the outcome of the story. Saturday morning two thousand odd years ago, no one knew the outcome of this famous story.

If the old woman in the alternate Three Bears story knew she'd wind up impaled on the church steeple she would not have ever entered that house. If Mary or the disciples knew that Jesus would have life again, their worries would have been abated and their fears eased. But, and this is simple yet important, they didn't know.

Today, how many of us are jobless? Who among us is oppressed? Who has just lost love - either to death or due to a break up? Many of us in the thick of these problems will react to the stress with worry, advice seeking, maybe some irrational behavior or, hopefully, ideally, calmly and rationally. Think back to times when you had to react to such a life affecting situation. Remember that as you made your way through it, you didn't know how it would turn out. I think back to all the fears I had after I was raped. Would I have some infectious disease? Would I be able to find insurance? Would I be pregnant by this thing that raped me? Would I be capable of trust again? Could I trust my own decision making? Could I trust others? Could I ever trust the legal system that refused to prosecute the rapist? For  weeks my life was sheer fear. For a year it was full of worry. I wish I could go back to that 35 year old self and tell her that aside from the atrocity of being raped, I was and would remain to be fine and healthy.

Obviously we can't know the end to our stories. We can, however, sometimes write the next page or chapter. We can guide the tone of the dialogue. We can change the scene. We can tweak the setting.

Too often we don't live with enough energy. We drift along through life letting it take us where it will instead of keeping our alert heads up and finding a better way. It's ironic, really. We want life to be easy so we drift along through it. Yet when we find ourselves where we don't want to be, it can take more effort to get out of that place than avoiding it would have taken. We work hard. We spend so much time earning money. Can we will ourselves to spend time bettering our lives in non-financial ways?

There have been times after which I've come out of a difficult situation feeling like I had a second chance on life. Dramatic, I know, but true. I felt that when I realized that I was not pregnant after the rape and once again, later, when I learned that I was still disease free. Truly every day is a second or third chance on life. Let's find out what we're made of. Let's pick one aspect of our lives - behavior, method of thought, the company we keep, whatever - that we want to better and let's do one thing every day to better it.

Stories are written one word at a time as our lives are lived one moment at a time. But we must live them mindfully. We must live them deliberately. If we don't, there are plenty of others out there who have designs on our life, plenty of other forces at work lying in wait.

It's an overwhelming prospect, I know. And we must be patient. We must take pleasure in our efforts regardless of their outcome. This is difficult. Be it Fate or a coworker there is a lot working against us. We must take joy in the smallest amount of progress.

Will Someone Please Explain . . . ?

One of my favorite Bible scriptures refers to being in this world, but not of it. This is sort of a blending of John 17: 14-19 and Romans 12:2. I understand that principle. I really do. I live it daily. Here are just a few of the things that perplex me about the world in which I live.

Will someone please explain to me why this character on Castle, Captain Victoria Gates insists on being called “sir?” Does she think she is given more respect with a man’s title? Does she think being called “ma’am” is degrading, insulting or somehow lower? I know, it’s a TV show, but I wonder how many women in the corporate world or our armed services make this insistence. This bothers me as do women who act insisting on being called “actors” instead of actresses.* Again, I must ask, do they think it builds them up to be referred to identically as their male counterparts? This came about during the 1970’s, I think, when women were fighting hard to get equality. I don’t see how being called by a male title would give any equality any more than replacing our panties with a jock strap would. We have beautiful words in our language devoted to us like poetess, laundress, stewardess, actress, sculptress and manageress. I found a site that actually tells the writer to avoid using these words. Why? I truly want to know. I can only speak for myself, but I don’t want to be lumped in with the men. I’ve smelled them. I’ve seen them scratch and spit. I've heard them snort and grunt. Keep me in the women’s corner, thank you very much.

Another thing, why are people so obsessed with weather reports? I have finally quit watching local news channels because they show the weather every ten minutes for about three or four minutes a shot. Between that and the commercials, there is about eight minutes of actual news. I could toss traffic reports into the mix here. News flash: Every day M-F the roads are congested during rush hour.  Every day. Another news flash: It’s winter, it’s cold. This summer it will be hot. Now, I do understand giving us warnings for tornadoes and hurricanes. That’s news. It doesn't happen every day. They are dangerous. What is interesting to me, though, is how many people ignore evacuation orders to weather hurricanes and how many people wring their hands over which coat to wear. Look outside. Is the sky gray? Take your umbrella just in case. Do you really need someone to tell you this or do you just need reassurance? Trust yourself, please.

On the subject of weather, I don’t understand why, in Minnesota, for example, the postman or post lady or postess person or whoever will deliver your mail in the worst of blizzards – whiteout conditions even. But the next day if your walk is not shoveled: no mail for you. Don’t ask them to risk life and limb walking through day-old snow. I remember taking a walk in Minnesota the day after a particularly heavy snowfall. The places that were not shoveled were easy to walk over. Where the good citizens had shoveled, it was icy and slippery. Why do we have to protect each other from Mother Nature? Isn’t that the individual’s job? Next they’ll be insisting people in Phoenix provide cooler air and shade outside their homes to help prevent heat stroke.

Here’s another for you. Stores and plastic bags. I usually carry my own canvas bags with me when I shop so I don’t have to use plastic or paper bags from the store. You’d be surprised how many cashiers try to bag the groceries in plastic then stick the plastic sacks in my canvas bag! Many stores automatically double bag things just in case it tears. Why don’t they just buy stronger bags? They are paying twice as much either way aren’t they? There was a store near my house in St Paul that would give me a bag for each item I bought, sometimes each double bagged. No kidding. But the prize goes to the good folks in Uzbekistan (whose bags tear if you look at them too hard). I was buying some bread presses from a sidewalk vendor. I selected the few I wanted and was going for money as he was going for one of his cheap sacks. “No thank you” I said (in Russian) “I’ll just carry them.” Well, this started a long exchange. No, he insisted let me bag them. I held fast as he  tried to take them out of my hands, I’ll carry them. I could tell he thought he was being nice as he pulled harder. Holding more tightly, I assured him we were parked just several steps away, we don’t need a bag. (Douglas was with me.) This went on for a couple of minutes when Doug finally said to me (in English) “Just take the bag, Laura.” No. There was a principle at stake here. Finally, after more pleading from a weary Douglas, I told the man I would take a bag if he lowered his price. Get this: he lowered his price rather than save himself the few pennies in keeping his bag. Can anyone explain this?

Here’s one I’ve been guilty of. In our society we walk on the right. It keeps things from getting too chaotic. (Imagine if we drove on the left and walked on the right, how confused we’d be.) Why is it when people who are walking through a building and come to a left turn around a corner manage to walk on the left side therefore causing a head-on collision with whoever is coming around the corner on the proper side? I have finally taught myself to turn wide. This took some time. I remember saying to myself (still do sometimes) 'stay on the right, stay on the right', like a mantra. What amuses me now is the looks I get when I’m turning right on the proper side and am rammed by one turning on the wrong side as though I have deliberately thrown myself in their path. Repeat after me: 'stay to the right, stay to the right'.

Lastly (for now), why do television programs advertise during the program. All these images that pop in and out and move around during a program are so aggravating to me. (This was supposed to be a light hearted rambling from me, now I’m getting serious. Harrumph!) I've seen the program that I am watching advertised at the same time as its airing - during it! News programs are the worst offenders. They are reporting a story while running other stories below. I have an idea. Spend less time on the cursed weather and traffic and you’d have time to report rather than scroll the more important stories below. These stories often cover up pictures they are showing that relate to the story they are actually reporting! Is anyone paying attention? Who? Who can? I’m very close to swearing off TV because of all this. Looking at it psychologically, I am (and you are) being taught to ignore what is in our periphery; unless, of course, you want to watch the commercials during your chosen program. I’m trying to be funny. I’m trying to be light. Okay, what about this: Perhaps this is further evolution of humankind. Maybe we really haven’t been using our brains to their fullest capacity. Perhaps we are actually capable of taking in all that information simultaneously. Maybe I’m just weak minded.

*I was relieved to see on the Castle website that the actress, Penny Johnson, has the title “actress” under her name.

Dimes

My grandmother, Mrs. Osa Alexander, lived to the age of 102. She was amazing. She mothered three girls - my mother and her two sisters, both older. When my mother was five, Kenneth, my grandfather, died and Osa was left alone to fend for the girls. She was not gentle (she could still hug me until it hurt well into her 90's), but she was determined. She went to work before it was so broadly, socially acceptable. She saved enough money to provide for herself in her retirement and leave some to her daughters.

When I was a little girl living in Phoenix, occasionally she would come to visit. This was big, because, except for a road trip to Tennessee, I don't know if she ever left Kentucky. What I remember most vividly about her is that she always had Butter Rum Lifesavers in her pocketbook (she carried a pocketbook, not a purse) and she always had a dime to give us girls. Us girls. There's the Kentucky in my blood coming out in my writing. Us girls, by the way, is my sister and I. A dime could buy us a candy bar back then. It was always a dime that she gave us. Never two nickels, not a quarter between the two of us. A dime each.

After she died I decided to write about her. Well, sort of about her. What I wound up writing about is more of a composite of myself, my mother and what I knew of my grandmother. The setting is Kentucky around the time that my grandmother would have been growing up. The story roughly follows my Mamaw's in that the mother in the story, Mama, is widowed and left with three girls to raise. As I write and intersperse fact with fiction, what I find is that I can more understand with my grandmother and my mother. Writing another's perspective opens up all kinds of love and understanding that wasn't there before. The word therapeutic just ran through my mind, but it's so much more than that, so much deeper and all-encompassing. My attitude inside myself, as well as externally, has evolved so much that I see more of people than I was able to before. I can see what lies beneath their behavior even if I don't have firsthand knowledge of it. I can see what may soothe them even if they are strangers. I can defuse situations in which I used to be the match striking itself and igniting the dynamite. I don't just react as I used to, I consider the person I'm dealing with

Since my Mamaw died, I have found dimes lying about. I started finding dimes like people find pennies. But it's stranger than that. I finally started writing down where I found dimes and the circumstances because it's rather unbelievable.

For example, I went into a practice studio at St. Thomas University to practice piano. The piano bench was against the wall and there was a regular chair at the piano. I sat my things on the bench, moved the chair, moved my things to the chair then moved the bench to the piano and practiced. When I got up to leave, there was a dime centered on the bench right where I'd been sitting.

I got in Doug's car to drive somewhere. When I reached down to move the seat back I saw a a dime perfectly balanced on the narrow lever. Doug, by the way, doesn't keep change. He gives it to me or puts it in the ashtray of his car.

I was walking around the Renaissance Festival grounds the Monday morning after a weekend spent there. Something glinted in my periphery. With all the trash that lands on the grounds out there, I usually ignore things like this - especially at this distance. For some reason I walked over to it. It was a dime.

I was walking with a friend down a neighborhood street and we were talking. Suddenly I stopped. She asked me why I had stopped. I was looking just ahead of us. On the ground were five or six dimes scattered. Only dimes. She hadn't seen them. That was very dreamlike as I have had many recurring dreams of finding change lying about which I gather because others can't see it.

Usually finding the dimes was not so remarkable. It's the fact that I was finding dimes like I used to find pennies, often. I didn't find any dimes in Tashkent. I only found two coins the entire time I was in Tashkent. I remember this because coins are rarely used there.

My friend Julie doesn't like carrying change around with her. She is also a very generous person. When she has loose change after a transaction in a shop, she tosses it onto the sidewalk outside the shop " . . . so some kid can find it and get excited."

When I started writing the story of my Mamaw, I remember feeling her with me. I began to see the dimes as her encouraging me to continue writing. If I got too lazy, she'd drop one in my path.

The Greater Kudu

There is an antelope called a greater kudu. The males have curled, twisted horns protruding from their heads. They spar with other males by interlocking horns to see who has the strongest pull.

We, as humans, are supposed to be smarter than the other animals. I couldn't help but think of mankind when I heard about greater kudus. We constantly entangle ourselves with one another in battle. From brother and sister fights to lovers' quarrels to outright war, we lock ourselves together with our adversaries over and over. The main difference as I see it is that we realize what we're doing and we can decide against it.

The greater kudus will often lock horns and find themselves unable to disengage them. When this occurs they wind up starving to death or dying of dehydration. All for the love of a female.

We've all heard the term "butting heads" when two people go at an argument to the ridiculous. I, myself, have heard it often throughout my life - often aimed at me. Why do we love conflict so much? Let's start with the small stuff. (And, according to some, it's all small stuff.) Why do we have to have the last word? Why do we have to be first in the line of traffic? Why do we care so much about what someone else believes?

I can ask these questions with a lot of life experience behind them. In the heat of an argument something in me knows that if I have the last word I have 'won' the argument because they've run out of things to say. In my efforts to 'win' I have repeated my opinion until I'm sick of it. I have failed to realize that only truth wins. If there is more than one truth, there is more than one 'winner'. I'm learning to state my opinion once - maybe twice if I can intelligently reword it or I truly don't think the other person got it - and then, with all that's in me (and that's not a whole lot yet, folks) shut up. At most I may say, "Well, I've told you how I feel." If I indeed have the truth and I have put it out there, there is not a whole lot else I can do. It's up to the person hearing it to move next. I have to learn to rest in that. I also have to learn to walk away and replay what they've said just in case they are right.

I got more traffic tickets in Phoenix than I could afford, usually for speeding. I did not like being passed. I didn't like it when someone would pull in front of me without enough space to do it safely or without signaling. I shouldn't have liked it. I still don't. Those who do that are wrong and dangerous and should not be driving. With that said, let me share with you my brilliant reactions to their bad driving. I needed to teach them (someone needed to) why they shouldn't drive like that. So I'd hurry and do the same thing to them. There! Gotcha! The incredible thing is, I never got a ticket when driving stupidly like that. How and when I got ticketed is another blog. Actually, a better blog would be the tickets I managed to worm my way out of. Anyway, eventually my conscience started talking to me. I decided that I should not do that any more. Easy to think . . . So I had to replace it with something just like a chain smoker has to replace the cigarette with something if he's going to quit. So I thought it out. Let them be wrong, I'll be right. Kind of self-righteous, but also just plain right. Who cares which side of my car they drive on? Logical, I still like that one. But my favorite remains, "Fine. If you drive that poorly, I'd rather have you in my sights than come out of nowhere again and cause an accident." I faltered, however, in my efforts to be the better driver. I eventually started back into the habit of speeding past them to keep them behind me because, "If you're going to cause an accident - which, driving like that, you will - I don't want to get stuck in the back up." Ah, me.

The one place where I've made the best progress is not caring so much about what others believe. Truly it's not that I am uncaring, I just realize that it usually doesn't matter to me. It doesn't make any difference in my life. I try to learn from them. How do they come to that belief? How do they express it? How can I express my beliefs? How should I not express my beliefs?

We are all distressed about the amount of war in our world. I know that the layers of reasons for war go deeper than I understand. I believe, however, that, at the base is not only greed, but belief systems. Too many people believe that those who live or think differently should not exist. This offers me a chance to say what I think is the root of almost all the trouble in our world. Selfishness. Whether it be manifested in greed, intolerance, chemical dependency (which, I know, has other roots, too), rape or other brutish, barbaric behavior. When self-centered meets self-centered, they lock horns and pull. They try to pull the other one over to their side. They try to make the other one go where they think they should go.

Who wins when your horns are locked and you're thirsty and hungry?

I've had some uncomfortable confrontations with some friends over the years. Sometimes I have simply ignored the offense to keep the peace. Other times I've argued or tried good old-fashioned debate. Sometimes I've questioned whether or not to continue in the friendship if there is so much stressful disagreement in it. I haven't ended any of these friendships for many reasons. One of them is my realization that if I cannot get along with my neighbor how can I ever expect peace in the Middle East? I think I've posed this question before in another blog so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. I think it bears repeating.

Add a Little Sugar . . .

Note:  Anyone who actually understands the title to this blog is impressive. I'm tired, not feeling at all creative and need to post this now.

It's been particularly blustery in the D. C. area lately. I could look at that poetically - nature is sweeping out the old and blowing in the new. I could look at it more scientifically - sheesh, my cheeks hurt! The wonder of it is that I can and do look at it from different perspectives. I love that word. Perspective. I love it as much as I love the word practice.*

Perspective is what has saved me from my old, bad attitudes that still plague me on occasion. If you know someone with a bad attitude, instead of telling them that they need a good attitude (they probably already know that; they just won't admit it to you) help them find a different perspective. 

I'm going to share a story with you about problems I had with one of my teachers. First, a word in her favor:

She tried to teach us something that, if her students heeded her advice, will have forever helped us in all areas of life. She tried to keep us on track and in the moment. It never failed when we were called on and made any mistakes, we'd start to chastise ourselves. She warned against this for many reasons. Mainly it took the focus off what we were doing (or trying to do). Secondly, it set a bad habit of abandoning that for which what we were working so hard. Remember, practice makes permanent. Holding tightly to that which we want and keeping at bay all distractions is invaluable. Imagine what we would be capable of mentally if we could keep our focus that strongly amid all that the world throws in our way every day.

So, obviously, I learned from her and she was skilled. I also had difficulties with her. She didn't like to answer my questions. It had not always been that way. The first several classes, when I'd ask a question, she'd not only answer it, she'd say something like "What an interesting question" Then, she would evade them or dismissively tell me to not worry about it. Others could question her at length even redirect her when she wasn't addressing their exact issue. I was shut down. One day, it got so aggravating to me that I reacted poorly. I exclaimed, "Does it bother you that I want answers to my questions?" I did this during class. I apologized the next day. It got progressively worse, however. So I talked to myself. "I am here to learn. I am not here to be respected. I am here to learn." I decided, after that little pep talk, that I'd hold my questions until study hall where she would answer them or I'd ask another teacher on duty. 

I got perspective. I didn't abandon myself, however. I acknowledged that I was being disrespected. I also acknowledged that there was nothing I could do about that. She would behave the way she would behave and I would behave the way I would behave. I decided to behave the best I could while keeping in mind the purpose of my being in the class. 

I stopped myself from over-thinking the situation. "Why is she picking on me?" "Why does she answer his questions?" "Why can't she just give me a simple yes or no and move on?" Good questions all, maybe, but irrelevant. I was there to learn. Could I learn while saving my questions for a later time? Yes. Could I learn while put out with the teacher? Yes. Could I learn while pushing the issue during class, wasting the time of others and possibly getting myself kicked out? Not as easily, nope. Perspective.

She came up to me once outside of class and asked me if I was angry. I answered, yes. We talked and I told her everything. She denied everything and told me that I disrespected her. In other words, we got nowhere since she flat out denied her own behavior.  

In time, some students joined our class and I noticed that she was treating me better. One of the new students was struggling greatly and not keeping up on the material. I didn't know this student's life outside of class. Did he even study? I didn't know. He certainly seemed to put out effort during class. All I saw is what we all saw, someone to whom this subject matter did not come easily. Nothing stuck. Basic lessons learned early on seemed new every day. Everything confounded him. The teacher was not always patient with him. She'd say downright rude things to him, "Come on. Keep up." She'd laugh at him. It hurt to watch this go on and I wanted to say something, but it wasn't my battle to fight. So I watched it and squirmed for him. And I noticed something. Her whole tone changed when she was addressing him. He was an irritation and she let it be known. It was the same tone she used to use with me. I recognized it. Her voice got dull and tired sounding. She obviously felt put upon in having to deal with him. It seemed as though she had chosen a new victim.

But I don't think that was the case. Even then, in the thick of it, I never thought she did any of this deliberately. As per our conversation, I don't think she was aware of it. With me, I wondered if subconsciously she favored the male students over me. There was one strong-voiced man who would have her attention whenever he wanted it. He would question some things down to the minutest details and she would patiently answer him. One of my friends thought that she felt like she had something to prove by keeping one student down at a time. I didn't like what this teacher did, but I didn't think she had an agenda.

In the midst of all this I started noticing something completely unrelated. When I would watch people I would see them as their younger self. I saw the 10 year old in presidents, celebrities, my own husband, even strangers. I saw what they had made of themselves and wondered how proud - or ashamed - their parents were. I wondered what their 10 year old self would think if they could have seen their adult self at that age. I wondered how the life of that 10 year old affected the behavior of this adult. I don't know why I started noticing all this in so many people, so many strangers. Maybe I was catching glimpses of my 10 year old self so I simply saw that in others. I don't know. But I think it was what gave me the perspective I was able to have in that situation with my teacher. I recognized this grown person navigating her way through life, trying to figure out how to handle the unexpected on the spot. And sometimes she failed.

One of my favorite authors is Frank Delaney. I'm reading The Matchmaker of Kenmare. Twice in this book a character says that if we can tell our own life story as though it were a legend, it could be very healing. Glimpsing into my own past (the 10 year old me) and the memories of what I have risen out of and what I have risen to are, I believe, the beginnings of my telling my own story.

The wind just blew someone's torn Christmas tree sack onto our balcony. The wind is blowing trash everywhere. Trash we have either misplaced or trash that has gotten away from us. I don't want to live my life leaving trash behind. In the midst of experiences like this with my teacher, I remind myself that I want to write more and, with every experience, my writing skills grow. They grow with characterizations I may not have invented without having known certain people. They grow with my observing my own dealings with others and the failed and successful ways I handle them. I should be grateful. Perhaps my attitude isn't that positive yet, but I think I'm heading there.

*I have written about the word (and the concept) of practice before. One of my teachers at the YMCA used to warn us that practice makes permanent in regards to our posture and other habits. One of my yoga teachers reminded us to not watch those around us during class ("Is she more flexible than me?"), but to focus on our self. She taught us that we spend our lives practicing yoga. We don't one day say, "I can yoga!" It's a process as is most of life.

A German Christmas

The beginning German classes went out to lunch - to a German restaurant, of course. We were required to speak German as much as possible. The wait staff were all very patient with us.

We had been practicing food and restaurant oriented language for a week and were ready to try it out. We were also hungry for German food after talking about it.

Above is Doug's selection of classic sauerbraten.  I made sauerbraten in the seventh or eighth grade as a home ec. project. I remember my mom saying something like, "What's sauerbraten? Why sauerbraten?  Why not spagetti?" I saw it in a magazine or newspaper and was drawn to it. Come to think of it, I guess it was destiny.

The restaurant, Old Europe, was in Georgetown. It was a beautiful day for a field trip. I felt like I was in elementary school again. I even wore a skirt instead of my usual jeans. ("You'll behave as you are dressed." I hear my teacher admonishing us. "So dress nicely.") We parked a few blocks away and walked. The waitstaff were all dressed in dirndls - traditional German wear for women. They were adorable. Old Europe was decorated for Christmas which set a nice mood.

 There was a round of ordering drinks - glüwein, beer and Spezi (pronounced 'shpaytsee') which is a popular soft drink in Germany. It's rather like a mixture of Coke and orange juice. It's light, sweet and refreshing and, maybe best of all, doesn't taste too bad after the ice melts in it.

I have off all the days between Christmas and New Year's Day. Poor Douglas has to go into the Institute for independent study. I'll still be studying; I've even set goals for myself.

As with all Christmases, I'm trying to write the next great Christmas story. This year I'm working on one about the legend that says on Christmas Eve, at midnight, the animals have the gift of speech. Does anyone out there know any good stories about that legend?

I'm also looking forward to the New Year and considering resolutions. I don't always keep my resolutions, but they usually make an impact in my life. To quote Bill Murray from "What About Bob", "Baby steps, baby steps." I think this year's resolution will have to do with keeping up my writing while I'm studying German. Studying German was a convenient excuse to not post every week or two, but I think I can handle doing two things in my life at one time for crying out loud. You, dear readers, will be the first to know if I succeed.

Here's a picture of our little "Who Tree". What's a Who Tree, you ask? Well, you know the story of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas don't you? Remember all the wacky decorations the Who's in Whoville had? That's our tree.

Merry Christmas from me.

"Prost" from Douglas! 

Languages

I've been studying German for just over five weeks now. My classes take place at the Foreign Service Institute in Arlington, Virginia. The classes are small - average of four students per instructor. I'm enjoying learning German and did very well on my first progress test. It has been a bit frustrating, though.

My teacher has been out sick for two weeks. All the teachers are very good, patient and caring, but I want my teacher back. On her first sick day out, I was placed with my husband in the advanced-beginner class. All the students in his class already speak some German. Not very well and certainly not anywhre near fluently, but they speak German already. The teacher uses very little English in the class. I was lost. The second day my teacher was out sick, I was put in the beginner-beginner class. Whew! Good class. Lots of drills using the vocabulary we had been assigned. Day three of my teacher's illness I was put back into the advanced-beginners class and there I have stayed.

Why didn't I request to be in the real beginners class, you may ask? Because I didn't think our teacher would be out for two weeks. Neither did she.

Being in my husband's class has been good for me in a way. Listening to all the German spoken has helped my ear tune to the sound of the language. It has forced my ear to pick out words even if all I get out of a sentence is mit (with) and und (and). It took me a lot longer than two weeks to begin picking out words in Russian when I was studying it.

I've had to muzzle my attitude. I prepared a script for myself for an auction all the classes gathered for on Wednesday. The teacher changed some of my words and added a few new ones. I don't see the sense of cramming in several new words an hour or so before a presentation - words that are not even on the vocabulary list in the book. I did poorly in the auction because I was stumbling around trying to read the revised script.

Monday I will be back with my class and my teacher, safe in my level.

One thing that intimidates some people in learning German is the long words. The Germans love compound words - compound to the extreme. It's not uncommon to see four or five words linked to form one word with a defnition that combines the definitions of each individual word. My favorite German word so far is Flugzeugverkehrsknotenpunkt. Flugzeug  means "airplane". Verkehr means "traffic". (The 's' is simply a connecting letter.) Knot means "knot". (Sometimes German is easy.) Punkt means point. Here's the riddle for you: What does Flugzeugverkehrsknotenpunkt mean? Think a minute before you read on for the answer. Flugzeugverkehrsknotenpunkt means "airline hub".

It's very common for writers and speakers of German to invent compound words when they see an opportunity or need one.

Here's one more riddle for you. What does the German word Schauspieler mean? Here are your two hints: Schau means "show"; spieler means "player". Okay, this one's a little easier, Schauspieler means actor.

Here are a couple of interesting things about German. Nouns are always capitalized. The word for "I" is not. However, the formal word for "you" is always capitalized.

It's fun listening to the experiences of different people learning various languages and the things they notice while doing so. A sign frequently seen here in the United States is "Lingerie Sale". In French "sale" apparently translates as "dirty"! Lingerie sale takes on a whole new meaning. I remember hearing a story from long ago about what a difficult time Chevrolet had in marketing the Nova in Mexico. It turns out that no va means "no go"! I asked one of Doug's former classmates if they (the Foreign Service) was going to give him language training before sending him to Australia. He laughed and said, "No, but they ought to."

(My next post will come sooner than this one did and it will have pictures so be on the look out.)