Small town life

Recently I moved from a suburb of a large metropolitan community to a relatively small town.  Karen was worried that I might have trouble adjusting.  She shouldn't have worried. 

My present and future hometown is quaint.  There's no other way to say it.  It isn't surrounded by strip malls, although there is an outlet mall down the road and a Costco in the town on the other side of it.  Its main street isn't much until night, when it comes alive.  The neighborhoods are a mix of the old and the new.  But what makes this town so special is its people.

I'm from a much faster-paced lifestyle where people, if they take the time to be nice, often forget to do so.  Here, it's a rule of thumb that niceness is to be expected.  Sure, you might find a diffident teen here or there, and perhaps there's an angry cuss of an adult mixed in for flavor, but people here are nice on a par with Ireland.  Heck, even the auto repairman to whom I'm bringing my car couldn't be nicer.

The closest thing to which I can liken is is a fictional town, Grady.  That was the setting for the movie Doc Hollywood, one of my favorite movies despite Michael J. Fox.  Grady has the mix of the physical beauty with the niceness of its people with just the right amount of quirkiness thrown in for equal measure.  Karen and I were in Florida and I would have liked to see the actual town in which the movie was filmed, Miconapy, Florida, but it wasn't to be.  Here are some photos of Miconapy that I took off the internet:

If you take out the palm trees and imagine snow, you'd have my new hometown.

The pace of life here is nicer, slower, more amenable to...well, living.  Sure, it's a change.  The local TV ads crack me up.  That St. Baldrick's Day is the lead story on the news when six teenagers died in a horrible crash elsewhere surprises me.  There's almost no mention of national news.  But that's OK.  Sometimes, less is more.

Did I mention this is Karen's hometown?  That also explains why I love it so.


(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

What ifs...

What ifs are typically viewed one of two ways:  Either they're not worth the time or people stress about them too much.  I'm not sure in which camp I fit, but I find one aspect of them intriguing.

Movies have been attempted to deal with the issue of What Ifs.  They don't tend to work because of the nature of the medium.  But writing about them is a more sensible approach, methinks, because the permutations can be drawn out and reviewed more readily.

Everyday, people make choices as to what to do, when to do something, how to do it and what not.  What fascinates me is to consider possibilities, not known options.  Sure, had I gone out with that member of the homecoming court in high school, things might have been different.  But I'm referring to things like this:

What if I'd gotten on that train instead of the one that left a few minutes later?  What if I hadn't transferred schools?  What if I'd I'd attended a different school for my last degree? 

There are unknowables in all What If situations.  But I'm not so focused on the measurable ones (girlfriends, jobs, etc.), but the day-to-day, things that people don't have to put much effort into considering. 

For example:  Had I turned at this corner in the one a block down, might I have met a person who could have changed my life?  Would my life have ended instead?  What if I had gotten into a car with so-and-so instead of my buddies?  Would my life have turned out differently because of s subtle and unmonumental decision?

Life depends on these little choices as much as on the titanic ones.  We've all heard about the person who was late to boarding the airplane that went down, or the person who left just before the bank robbery began that ended with deaths.  Those moments cause everyone to pause and consider the choices they make.  But momentous events can come from smaller choices as well.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

To-do list

I'm getting my new office together this weekend.  I never thought I'd have my own office, but the economy and circumstances beyond my control have compelled me to take the step.  Today I drove around my new area in search of office equipment.  Being the miserly one that I am when it comes to myself, I seek cheap but high quality equipment that won't cost me too much to move to the new office.  That's not asking too much, is it?

Be that as it may, it caused me to think of other things that I'd like to do that are unconnected to my practice.

I'd love to see Spring Training once before I die.  Hopefully, it's the Spring before the Cubs win their first World Series title since 1908.

I'd have liked to see Machu Picchu, but my bout with pulmonary embolisms probably put an end to that dream.

Seeing the Aurora Borealis, however, is still in the realm of the reachable.  I do believe I'll get to see that with Karen someday.  We'd also like to take a cruise to Alaska, so we may get a two-for on that one.

I'd like to cross the equator.  Not necessarily on a ship, especially with seamen, because I don't the treatment meted out to pollywogs.

I have to visit Normandy.  I don't want to see anything else in France.  Bastogne is in Belgium, and that's about the only other battlefield in Europe I want to see.  I'd like to visit Iwo Jima also, although the sulphuric smells may make me wish I hadn't.

I'd like to get a couple of books published.  The Spanish Year is written and awaits revisions and editing.  The other book, as yet untitled, is more important from this perspective.  Like John Hancock, I intend to make sure my name is prominently displayed on that one.

I'd like to take Karen to Scotland so she can show me her ancestral land.  Since the Scots want free of the English, I can make an exception for this one.  Especially since it would please my girl so.

I might like to compete in a chess tournament once.  Nothing with grandmasters, mind you. 

Learning the guitar would be fun.  I suppose I should learn to read music first, though.

I'd love to attend a clambake.  That would be the perfect end to my first sailing cruise.

Hang-gliding has always intrigued me.  Perhaps I should go the safer route and get up in a glider instead.  No, parachuting holds no interest for me.  Nor does bungee jumping.

The countries I want to visit are Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Portugal and Greece. 

I'd love to learn to speak Portuguese, Italian, Arabic and Irish.

A train trip across the Northwest or across the Canadian Northwest would be very enjoyable, I'm thinking.

Riding in a bobsled has always intrigued me.  Luge holds no such interest for me.

Using a sniper rifle would be amazing. 

Isn't it curious?  I have no desire to meet a celebrity, although it would be entralling to meet George Will.

Arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court would be wild.  I may have to settle for being admitted, though.

One place I definitely want to visit is Arlington Cemetery.  John Basilone's grave, though, has special significance to me.

Finally, I'd love to be able to introduce Karen to our Mother.  I think the two of them would have a blast together.



(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Chocolate chip ice cream

Today I write in defense of something that has no defenders.  In fact, it has many detractors, people who would take its noble essence and embellish it beyond recognition, while still trying to capitalize on the history of its good name.  I submit, dear readers, that it is time for chocolate chip ice cream to take its rightful place among ice cream flavors.

I'm not here to argue that chocolate chip ice cream should be everyone's favorite.  Speaking selfishly -- because in reality, that's all this post is about, my selfishness -- I don't want it to be the most beloved flavor, because then I'll have to compete with everyone to buy it.  As it is, it appears so rarely on cooler shelves that one would think it was being rationed.  I merely ask that like its brethern, it be left alone to exist in its simplest form, its truest form, the way God through man intended it.

Go to any store now and you can find any variation of chocolate chip ice cream you'd like:  Mint chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, chocolate chip cookie dough.  I defy anyone to find a normal-sized container of just straight chocolate chip ice cream, though.  It's as if it's been banned for being more tasteful than other flavors.

What's the big deal?  Consider, for a second, the three primary flavors of the ice cream world:  Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.  Sure, they've been lumped together with the o-so-cosmopolitan name of Neopolitan.  They've had fruit put in them, chocolate chips put in them, caramel and fudge drizzled over them.  But one can still find containers of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, standing alone by themselves without any adornment, right there on the shelves with the bastardized containers of chocolate chip married with unnatural ingredients.  Why must chocolate chip suffer these indignities?  Why can't it be left alone like chocolate, vanilla and strawberry?

For whatever reason, chocolate chip has fallen into disfavor.  There used to be several brands that offered straight chocolate chip ice cream.  No more.  The only straight chocolate chip that I can find is made by Haagen Das and even then it's not in every store.  Breyer's also has one, but again some stores only offer it on a limited basis.

It seems the trend in ice cream is to offer designer flavors, with candy bars mixed in or exotic fruits blended in.  I'm all for diversity, even with ice cream flavors.  But enough is enough.  There are standards to be maintained.  Chocolate chip ice cream offers the perfect blend of the traditional flavor of vanilla with the crunchiness and unique flavor of the chips.  Its virtue is in the perfect blend of textures and flavors that can't be overcome by any other compounded ice cream flavor.

So the next time you get a chance, ask your grocer or the ice cream vendor for straight chocolate chip ice cream.  You'll be doing the world a favor by restoring balance to our dessert options.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Teaching Spanish

Learning a foreign language was, for me, quite fun.  For whatever reason, I took to it like a duck to water.  My wiring is such that I can understand the vagueries of languages far better than I can the mysteries of calculus or algebra.  For that matter, the only solid connection with algebra I have is that I know its root is Arabic and that comes from my study of Spanish.

I enjoy teaching Spanish.  I enjoyed learning not only the language but also Spanish literature.  Sure, some of it stunk -- Cien años de soledad confused the heck out of me in Spanish, so I read it in English only to discover that I understood it better -- if at all -- in Spanish -- but it opened up new vistas, new worlds that I never understood even if I knew they existed.

For whatever reason, I also took to teaching Spanish.  I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy about professing to understand a language I was still struggling to learn.  Teaching freshman year Spanish wasn't much of a challenge.  The department gave us the textbooks and we followed along like lemmings.  Where my own contributions came into play were in the presentation of the materials.

I'm no stand-up comedian.  But when a male student used the false cognate and protested that he was embarazado, I told him he was a medical miracle, which caused him to smile uneasily until he found out that instead of being embarrassed he was pregnant, thereby compounding his shame.  Another student called it Dondi instead of DON day, which prompted me to tell him I wasn't familiar with comic strips.  The confused look on her face was priceless.

Perhaps my favorite classes, however, were the attendance optional ones that I ran once a semester.  Had the administration known what I was up to, they would not have sanctioned them.  I gave any student who was morally or religiously opposed the option to not attend the next day's class with no penalty, but the subject was, for lack of a more didactic term, swear words.

Before one has a coniption fit about this, please realize that I wasn't teaching students how to swear.  That's not to say that some students didn't try to use it for that purpose.  I was able to navigate through their thinly-veiled attempts to procure this information from me.  One notable attempt involve a woman in her forties who asked me how to say the filthiest thing any student had ever asked me.  I looked her in the eye and said, Do you know you could be my mother?  I was twenty-four at the time.  Needless to say, these classes always had perfect attendance.  I even taught a couple of these for fellow grad students.

The high point of my teaching career had to be when we played keg softball at the local park.  We chipped in and bought four kegs of beer, commandeered a local baseball diamond and, against municipal ordinance, drank our way through nine innings of softball.  I think I got home at one in the morning.

Some students couldn't have cared less.  Some actually may have been inspired.  All I know is that I found another hobby that kept me interested doing something I found I loved to do.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Marketing myself

I don't know why it is, but I can stand in front of a crowd and make a speech.  I can stand in front of a crowd and teach.  In my youth I was even comfortable playing basketball in front of large crowds, which I did on a couple of occasions.  But I loathe the idea of standing in front of a crowd and trying to sing or act.  It's just not something I feel comfortable doing.

Now I find myself in the position where I have to appear before crowds of unknown people to market myself.  This causes me no discomfort.  What does bother me is that I have to try to boast about myself without making it seem that I'm boasting.  I'm not comfortable boasting about myself.  Contrary to what my siblings may tell you, I'm not naturally conceited.  I even like to think of myself as modest.  So telling people why they should hire me over other people is difficult. 

One of the ways I have to market myself is to be sociable.  Next to singing or acting in front of other people, being sociable is about as uncomfortable to me.  Karen thinks I may have a mild form of autism.  I disagree.  I think it was the way that I was raised -- or not raised, to be more precise -- that caused me to be uncomfortable around people in social situations.

That's not to lay all the blame at our parents' feet.  I wasn't socially adroit in my earlier years and although I may have sloughed off some of that awkwardness over the years -- although not enough for Karen's liking -- I'm still uncomfortable.

And the final element to all of this is that this group I'm meeting is a Spanish-speaking group.

Let the good times roll....

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Favorite artwork

Karen is very artistically gifted.  I have difficulties drawing coherent stick figures.  Be that all as it may, I have an appreciation for visual media that's about as eclectic as my musical tastes.

First of all, I don't get certain art.  That's not to say that I find it less valuable or worthwhile, I just don't see the point of buying it or spending much time looking at it.  To be perfectly honest, art museums bore the stuffing out of me.  To put it simply, I know what I like and I like what I know.  In other words, I know what I'll like when I see it.

When it comes to painting, perhaps my favorite artist is Velázquez.  My favorite of his works is Las meninas.  For those of you unfamiliar with the painting, here it is:

A book I bought in Spain explains the absolute artistry that is the picture, but since I'm so wretched at art, I won't even try to explain it.

I also appreciate El Greco.  My favorite of his is El entierro del conde de Orgaz.  Again, for those unfamiliar with the work:

Both of these paintings surprised me by their sheer size.  How the artists were able to put them together to scale amazes me.  El Greco also put in some personal elements to his painting; I've always liked hidden meanings in paintings.

Norman Rockwell is also a favorite of mine.  I like just about anything he's painted.  I love Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World: 

I was particularly saddened to discover that three weeks after that painting was finished the model, Christina, who was afflicted with some disease that prevented her from walking, died. 

Photography is also another medium I appreciate.  There are plenty of photographers whose works I admire, but the non-pareil photog for me is Ansel Adams:

Moonrise over Hernández, New Mexico, is just one of the many photographs of his I enjoy.

But there's another medium that enthralls me and I don't know quite what to call it.  When commericals show liquids flowing in slow motion, or when a movie has a scene where a helicopter is flying over buildings and filming them from directly above, I'm mesmerized.  I can watch those things and sit there quiet as a churchmouse.

Other artistic endeavors confuse me more than please me.  I rarely understand modern art.  I don't understand performance art.  Surrealism confuses me.  Impressionism does nothing for me.

All this does is prove the maxim that art is in the eye of the beholder.

But show me milk chocolate being poured in slow motion and you have me in the bottom of your hand.


(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles