Almost a month and nothing to say? That seems extremely unlikely. On consideration, I am going to blame it all on statistics -- and a sinus infection. Each complicating the other in so many ways. It is difficult to concentrate on confidence intervals and rejection regions when you can't breathe and it is hard to get enough sleep when the current problem set is written in friulan instead of English. The course is over now, and apparently I did well enough, so I intend to enjoy the next few weeks before I have to start Stats II.
Taking graduate coursework is a condition of employment for my job. At the time, I thought "Such a deal! They are going to pay me to do what I always wanted to do!" Then they started telling me what I had to take. I'd been looking forward to taking that Shakespeare course I never got around to as an undergraduate, or maybe music theory or anthropology. No such luck. Education and math. And statistics. I used to think that statistics was a branch of math. Wrong --- the fact that it has its own course prefix (stat instead of math) is certainly a clue, but the biggie is that I actually like math, even (or especially) the difficult reality twisting types.
Oh well, the semester has ended, I have both awarded and received grades - and unlike most conventional workplaces, where one moves immediately from the present crisis to the coming crisis, we have a little downtime before the next semester starts. The part of my job that is not teaching continues during this interval - but that is actually a very good thing. It is a good thing a) because they continue to pay me that part of my salary and b) because it is possible to get some work done with students and most faculty away.
This morning I am sitting at my desk at home in my housecoat (with a $10 space heater at my feet) instead of hitting the road south. I'll be going very late today for reasons which are beyond my control (like so many things in my life).
There is a dusting of snow out there. I had to push the puppy out the door this morning, after all, why would he want to go out? He had already tended to business in the bathroom. When I brought the dogs back in half an hour later, however, he was having so much fun that he didn't want to come in - the big dogs were ready, though. The snow is barely falling but it is pretty chilly.
Snow is fairly rare around here. We get "Severe Weather Warnings" on our weather site and threats of 1- 4 inches of accumulation, but usually all we get is visible but not really measureable. I'm not complaining. I lived a few years in the frozen northern wastelands (anything north of an extended Mason-Dixon Line) and I can live without the miraculous white covering obscuring all imperfections, snowball fights, and snow angels -- and drifts the size of small cars in my driveway, knee-deep slush, and black ice. Every now and then we catch it, I have pictures of the swimming pool full of snow and a ten-inch cap on my old van - but then, I spent a Christmas in New Orleans with the temperatures never rising above 40 - as long as these things remain rare, I'm ok with it. I have driven to conferences over in the middle of the state and had to stop under every overpass to clean the windshield because the defroster in the car was not up to the situation. and on one memorable occasion it took me forty-five minutes to drive from the parking lot at the high school to my house - which I could see from the edge of the school property. Those who want it can have it, thank you very much.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Drifting along ...
The tumbleweed pinball season is starting! There were some mildly brisk intermittent breezes this morning and the small weeds were breaking loose and hitting the road. There were a few rugged individualists and many traveling in what a colleague of mine refers to as "herds." With attention and care it is usually possible to dodge the singles, but the herds are tough. Added is the directional factor. The road is officially designated Highway 70 South - BUT the stretch I drive is certainly not that simple. It starts out heading south, all right, but about half way down you come to the Big Curve and then a little farther on the Other Curve. After that point, the road is actually heading southwest - and with that the driver is dealing with wind from a totally different quarter with respect to the vehicle. This morning the wind was basically out of the north - which means that the herds were running right down the road for the first part of the trip. The gusts were supposed to be up to 35 mph, but even my rambling wreck goes faster than that and there is no way to dodge them all. After the Curves, they were running obliquely across the road - a very different challenge.
Along the sides of the road the Big Mamas were beginning to strain against their root systems and soon it will be really exciting. We had some visitors out here from some place back on the East Coast once. They rented a car and drove the hundred miles from the airport to the campus. They were could hardly wait to tell us:
"And then we got hit by a tumbleweed!"
"How big was it?"
"Oh, about the size of a basketball."
"Wait until you run into one the size of Volkswagen ... bus."
Exaggeration? Well, maybe a little, but the babies out there this morning running in herds were the size of basketballs and this is definitely only the beginning.
Down where I come from (much as a military brat "comes from" any place in particular), it is, or used to be, fairly common for folks to go out and pick their Christmas tree from the available crop of tumbleweeds. My great-aunt had a terrific tree one year made of three tumbleweeds in graduated sizes stacked artistically and spray-painted white. It was about seven feet tall. The color is optional - I have seen silver ones, gold ones, red ones, even green ones as well as the avant garde - in their natural color. There were also occasional spectacular fires at the homes of those who insisted on putting lights on them - maybe these new LED Christmas lights are cool enough to be at least comparatively safe. But that tree of Aunt Jane's was a wonder - and hung with red and green chiles - absolutely beautiful.
Around here, their function runs to sport rather than decor. More about scoring when the season heats up.
Along the sides of the road the Big Mamas were beginning to strain against their root systems and soon it will be really exciting. We had some visitors out here from some place back on the East Coast once. They rented a car and drove the hundred miles from the airport to the campus. They were could hardly wait to tell us:
"And then we got hit by a tumbleweed!"
"How big was it?"
"Oh, about the size of a basketball."
"Wait until you run into one the size of Volkswagen ... bus."
Exaggeration? Well, maybe a little, but the babies out there this morning running in herds were the size of basketballs and this is definitely only the beginning.
Down where I come from (much as a military brat "comes from" any place in particular), it is, or used to be, fairly common for folks to go out and pick their Christmas tree from the available crop of tumbleweeds. My great-aunt had a terrific tree one year made of three tumbleweeds in graduated sizes stacked artistically and spray-painted white. It was about seven feet tall. The color is optional - I have seen silver ones, gold ones, red ones, even green ones as well as the avant garde - in their natural color. There were also occasional spectacular fires at the homes of those who insisted on putting lights on them - maybe these new LED Christmas lights are cool enough to be at least comparatively safe. But that tree of Aunt Jane's was a wonder - and hung with red and green chiles - absolutely beautiful.
Around here, their function runs to sport rather than decor. More about scoring when the season heats up.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Light
Some morning I am going to stay out there and watch it happen. I take the puppy out for his morning performance at around 5:30. I have never considered myself a morning person, but that time of day has some charms. For one thing, our street is quiet - nothing to distract puppy from the prompt performance of his duty - and for another, there are stars. Right now Orion is overhead, slightly to the south. Or, at least in the direction I think of as south. I have found that my sense of direction does not always align with compasses and such. At eleven o'clock at night, he is over the back yard - I can just see him over the roof, but, six hours later, he is over the front yard.
An hour of so later, when I leave for work, the stars are gone and this day features an odd clarity, a result of the indirect light, I suppose, before the sun actually rises. All those structures and trees which, less than an hour earlier were indefinite masses, are granted an extraordinary sharpness. Sometimes they are so clear that they look like stage sets, two-dimensional cut-outs rather than the real thing.
Then there are the colors: when I got in the car this morning, the sky on the horizon was distinctly baby blue shading upward into a distinct pastel pink. How does blue shade into pink? The colors were very definite and there was no clear demarcation between them, perhaps I should consult a watercolorist. At any rate, by the time I reached the corner (three houses away) the whole thing had shifted into a light clear yellow at the horizon which paled into white and at some point became the so-called "normal" blue sky.
The sun is so low still as I drive down the highway that the roadbed itself casts a shadow on the weeds along the side of the road. It is so low that it shines under the cars on the road and their shadows on that shadow line of the roadbed show the light shining under them making them car-shaped (or van-shaped or pick-up shaped) instead of just fast-moving masses.
And this morning the lights are with me. In spite of starting out a little later than I like, the parking lot is almost empty, my preferred parking place is vacant, and the lights in the department are not even turned on yet.
An hour of so later, when I leave for work, the stars are gone and this day features an odd clarity, a result of the indirect light, I suppose, before the sun actually rises. All those structures and trees which, less than an hour earlier were indefinite masses, are granted an extraordinary sharpness. Sometimes they are so clear that they look like stage sets, two-dimensional cut-outs rather than the real thing.
Then there are the colors: when I got in the car this morning, the sky on the horizon was distinctly baby blue shading upward into a distinct pastel pink. How does blue shade into pink? The colors were very definite and there was no clear demarcation between them, perhaps I should consult a watercolorist. At any rate, by the time I reached the corner (three houses away) the whole thing had shifted into a light clear yellow at the horizon which paled into white and at some point became the so-called "normal" blue sky.
The sun is so low still as I drive down the highway that the roadbed itself casts a shadow on the weeds along the side of the road. It is so low that it shines under the cars on the road and their shadows on that shadow line of the roadbed show the light shining under them making them car-shaped (or van-shaped or pick-up shaped) instead of just fast-moving masses.
And this morning the lights are with me. In spite of starting out a little later than I like, the parking lot is almost empty, my preferred parking place is vacant, and the lights in the department are not even turned on yet.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
d = rt
Just when I think I have it all figured out. This morning when I reached out to push "snooze" on my alarm at 5:30, I turned it off instead. Fortunately, dogs do not allow me to sleep very late, just late enough to have to hurry. Plan B. Cutting a corner here, letting the dishwasher wait until I come home, deciding that my hair can survive another day, skipping a lunch, all quite doable. However, the puppy must be taken out for a "walk." This is not optional. He isn't big enough yet to spend the day out with the big dogs, but either he is catching on quickly - and really likes the puppy biscuits I have for treats for good dogs - or I am becoming well trained in the habits of puppies, or, at least, this puppy in particular. At any rate, in spite of an extremely cooperative performance on the part of puppy, I was nearly fifteen minutes late hitting the road.
The temptation to floor it once I am out on the open highway is almost irresistable, but resisting seems like a good idea, since there are three police forces who share jurisdiction over that stretch of road and they are vigilant, as many a student late for class has discovered. Thank goodness for cruise control. I confess, I did set the cruise at just short of 70 this morning instead of my usual 67 or 68, knowing as I did so that I wasn't really gaining anything significant. I worked it all out a couple of years ago while carpooling with a friend. She usually makes the run at 75, and at the time gas prices had peaked out near four dollars a gallon, so I was driving at a very conservative 55. She did the driving, and I bought the gas. I figured that I was averaging two extra trips per tank of gas in my rambling wreck, she was unmoved. She could use the time more than the money.
One day when I was driving myself and she went flying by me in her SUV, I decided to figure out how much time she was actually saving. Somewhere long ago and far away I had learned, as all children of engineers must, that distance equals rate times time: d=rt - always one of my favorites for its simplicity and versatility and no fractions. I assumed that the highway speed section was actually twenty miles, instead of nineteen and a little bit, and that I was driving 60 while she drove 75 (after all, I was doing the arithmetic in my head while driving down the highway, and mental arithmetic has never been one of my strong suits). Never mind, only math nerds really care about that sort of thing - and they can do these calculations without even thinking about it. I found the result of my calculations surprising enough that I checked them with pencil and paper and calculator when I got to work. The extra fifteen miles per hour gained her exactly three minutes. Those fool traffic signals make much more difference in the travel time than the increase in speed. And knowing all that still didn't stop me from hurrying and being quite certain that my hurry had gotten me there in time for class.
The temptation to floor it once I am out on the open highway is almost irresistable, but resisting seems like a good idea, since there are three police forces who share jurisdiction over that stretch of road and they are vigilant, as many a student late for class has discovered. Thank goodness for cruise control. I confess, I did set the cruise at just short of 70 this morning instead of my usual 67 or 68, knowing as I did so that I wasn't really gaining anything significant. I worked it all out a couple of years ago while carpooling with a friend. She usually makes the run at 75, and at the time gas prices had peaked out near four dollars a gallon, so I was driving at a very conservative 55. She did the driving, and I bought the gas. I figured that I was averaging two extra trips per tank of gas in my rambling wreck, she was unmoved. She could use the time more than the money.
One day when I was driving myself and she went flying by me in her SUV, I decided to figure out how much time she was actually saving. Somewhere long ago and far away I had learned, as all children of engineers must, that distance equals rate times time: d=rt - always one of my favorites for its simplicity and versatility and no fractions. I assumed that the highway speed section was actually twenty miles, instead of nineteen and a little bit, and that I was driving 60 while she drove 75 (after all, I was doing the arithmetic in my head while driving down the highway, and mental arithmetic has never been one of my strong suits). Never mind, only math nerds really care about that sort of thing - and they can do these calculations without even thinking about it. I found the result of my calculations surprising enough that I checked them with pencil and paper and calculator when I got to work. The extra fifteen miles per hour gained her exactly three minutes. Those fool traffic signals make much more difference in the travel time than the increase in speed. And knowing all that still didn't stop me from hurrying and being quite certain that my hurry had gotten me there in time for class.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Daylight Savings Time
It was a better day for traffic signals today. I only had to come to a full stop twice - note the distinction: I did barrel on through one that was way down the pink side of amber, and at another I had to coast down to "just barely" before it changed, but on my score card those count on the green side.
I am determined to enjoy the next few mornings. We have just passed the calendar point at which the elevation of the sun at my preferred departure time allows me to turn out onto the highway (at an intersection without a signal) before the sun is high enough over the horizon to blind me to the approach of large vehicles towing silver tanks of milk or SUVs travelling 15 mph over the speed limit. Getting out there can be an adventure. Just now, though, I can look back to the east and see those shiny ribbons where the tar leached out of the asphalt during high summer and know that if I can see them unbroken all the way back to the bend, I can wrangle my elderly low-powered behemoth out there without fear of imminent destruction. This will last for another week or so, until we go off daylight savings time - that kicks the sun an hour higher in the sky and it all happens again.
I haven't ever quite figured out daylight savings time. I know how it works, of course: spring ahead; fall back and all that - lose an hour of sleep at one end, gain it back at the other. I just don't understand why - and what it is supposed to be saving. I am pretty sure that the sun shines for the same number of hours on any given day regardless of what time we call it. I suppose some of those long summer days could spare an hour of sunlight - if I could save it for one of the miserably cold and short days in the middle of winter, but they won't let me do that.
Why can't we all just use Greenwich Mean Time or some other designated standard? Who made the prime meridian run through Greenwich, anyway? School could just start at some sun-appropriate hour. And I would be far less likely to arrive at the airport an hour late because it is in central time, not "real" time (which is the designated time where I live), because 10 o'clock would be 10 o'clock, not 9 o'clock. I suppose we would have to all go on a 24 hour clock, too. It wouldn't make any significant difference when calling the cousins in Ireland, it would still be necessary to figure the "displacement" - 2200 hours would be late evening there and the middle of the afternoon here, but that wouldn't be more difficult than figuring out that we are seven hours earlier than GMT and if it is 7 pm here it is 2 am there - or is it six hours...
I am determined to enjoy the next few mornings. We have just passed the calendar point at which the elevation of the sun at my preferred departure time allows me to turn out onto the highway (at an intersection without a signal) before the sun is high enough over the horizon to blind me to the approach of large vehicles towing silver tanks of milk or SUVs travelling 15 mph over the speed limit. Getting out there can be an adventure. Just now, though, I can look back to the east and see those shiny ribbons where the tar leached out of the asphalt during high summer and know that if I can see them unbroken all the way back to the bend, I can wrangle my elderly low-powered behemoth out there without fear of imminent destruction. This will last for another week or so, until we go off daylight savings time - that kicks the sun an hour higher in the sky and it all happens again.
I haven't ever quite figured out daylight savings time. I know how it works, of course: spring ahead; fall back and all that - lose an hour of sleep at one end, gain it back at the other. I just don't understand why - and what it is supposed to be saving. I am pretty sure that the sun shines for the same number of hours on any given day regardless of what time we call it. I suppose some of those long summer days could spare an hour of sunlight - if I could save it for one of the miserably cold and short days in the middle of winter, but they won't let me do that.
Why can't we all just use Greenwich Mean Time or some other designated standard? Who made the prime meridian run through Greenwich, anyway? School could just start at some sun-appropriate hour. And I would be far less likely to arrive at the airport an hour late because it is in central time, not "real" time (which is the designated time where I live), because 10 o'clock would be 10 o'clock, not 9 o'clock. I suppose we would have to all go on a 24 hour clock, too. It wouldn't make any significant difference when calling the cousins in Ireland, it would still be necessary to figure the "displacement" - 2200 hours would be late evening there and the middle of the afternoon here, but that wouldn't be more difficult than figuring out that we are seven hours earlier than GMT and if it is 7 pm here it is 2 am there - or is it six hours...
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
So - what am I? A sheep, already?
Friends and colleagues are blogging, so here I go, too. I suspect that this is a device to facilitate procrastination - as if I needed help to procrastinate. As long as I am doing this, I AM writing - and I can always work on the novel tomorrow - or grade the papers - or crunch the numbers - or wash the dishes - or walk the dog - or ...
Five days a week I get in my car and drive about twenty miles south down HW70 to work. It isn't a particularly spectacular drive, but it is my drive and my time. Sometimes it is the only genuinely private time I have in the course of a day. There are others who make this daily commute, but we are each enclosed in our metal cocoons essentially alone. I can sing along with the classic rock on the radio, or talk to students in terms that I would never use to their faces. I can plan the day, the coming evening, the future, or my next "project." Or I can just watch and note the daily differences and seasonal changes on "my" piece of highway.
There are seven traffic lights on my drive - one in the town where I live and six in the town where I work. There are more traffic signals in the town where I live, but I don't have to go through those intersections on my way of a morning. Sometimes I think that I can gauge the day by the number of reds that I hit. If I get all the way to the parking lot on green, surely the omens are good. On the other hand, if I have to stop for every single one of them, not only does it make me concerned about the dangers of the remainder of the day, it adds a good five to ten minutes to my commute.
This was a 5 out of 7 red light day. By the time I pulled in, my preferred parking spot was occupied and three on beyond it. I try to leave the house around 7 am for a reason - and it is not to park half-way down the lot from the nearest door into the building. Although, I really don't mind the walk in the morning so much - until it gets cold - I am a total wimp about cold weather - but I really hate trudging out and out and farther out at the end of the day. Sure enough, perversity was the order of the day. I'm not sure why I am starting this on a 5/7 day, maybe my own perversity is in operation here.
Friends and colleagues are blogging, so here I go, too. I suspect that this is a device to facilitate procrastination - as if I needed help to procrastinate. As long as I am doing this, I AM writing - and I can always work on the novel tomorrow - or grade the papers - or crunch the numbers - or wash the dishes - or walk the dog - or ...
Five days a week I get in my car and drive about twenty miles south down HW70 to work. It isn't a particularly spectacular drive, but it is my drive and my time. Sometimes it is the only genuinely private time I have in the course of a day. There are others who make this daily commute, but we are each enclosed in our metal cocoons essentially alone. I can sing along with the classic rock on the radio, or talk to students in terms that I would never use to their faces. I can plan the day, the coming evening, the future, or my next "project." Or I can just watch and note the daily differences and seasonal changes on "my" piece of highway.
There are seven traffic lights on my drive - one in the town where I live and six in the town where I work. There are more traffic signals in the town where I live, but I don't have to go through those intersections on my way of a morning. Sometimes I think that I can gauge the day by the number of reds that I hit. If I get all the way to the parking lot on green, surely the omens are good. On the other hand, if I have to stop for every single one of them, not only does it make me concerned about the dangers of the remainder of the day, it adds a good five to ten minutes to my commute.
This was a 5 out of 7 red light day. By the time I pulled in, my preferred parking spot was occupied and three on beyond it. I try to leave the house around 7 am for a reason - and it is not to park half-way down the lot from the nearest door into the building. Although, I really don't mind the walk in the morning so much - until it gets cold - I am a total wimp about cold weather - but I really hate trudging out and out and farther out at the end of the day. Sure enough, perversity was the order of the day. I'm not sure why I am starting this on a 5/7 day, maybe my own perversity is in operation here.
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