Van katoen

Dit jaar zijn de boeren vroeg met het katoen oogsten.

Kijk, dat is nou zo'n zin waarvan ik nooit, maar dan ook nooit, gedacht had ik die ooit op zou schrijven. Als stadsmens, of liever gezegd, veredelde buitenwijkmens, had ik niks met het platteland. Begrijp me niet verkeerd, ik vond het mooi hoor, en kon enorm genieten van lange wandelingen-slash- fietstochten door polders, weilanden vol met koeien, en maisvelden. Maar ik kon er werkelijk geen zinnig woord over zeggen. Vaak wist ik de juiste woorden niet eens, laat staan dat ik ze tot een zinnige zin kon rijgen.

Maar nu ik al voor mijn vierde herfst op rij door de katoenvelden van Georgia rijd, begin ik toch echt enige patronen te ontdekken. Mijn eerste herfst hier werd het katoen pas vlak voor de eerste vorst, na Thanksgiving, geoogst, en kon ik me dus wekenlang vergapen aan het eindeloze wit aan weerszijden van de weg. Die zomer, toen wij verhuisden, was het volgens de locals nooit echt warm geworden. Met de herinnering aan zwaar bezweet tot onder mijn teennagels en oververhit verhuisdozen sorteren nog vers in mijn geheugen, kon ik daar maar moeilijk bijkomen. Maar nu, ruim drie jaar laten, begin ik die locals door te krijgen. Deze zomer was het namelijk wel "lekker" warm, met temperaturen ruim boven de veertig graden. En het meeste katoen is deze week al binnengehaald. Toevallig ook net de week waarin de temperaturen zijn gaan dalen Dus nu heb ik een theorie. Als stadsmeid. Hoe warmer de zomer, hoe vroeger het katoen rijp is voor de oogst. En als het eenmaal echt koud wordt, kun je maar beter zo snel mogelijk je katoen van het veld halen.

Goed he? Ik vond het zelf wel redelijk indrukwekkend. Voor iemand die het verschil tussen boekweit en rogge nog steeds niet weet dan, he?

Ik vind eigenlijk best wel dat ik het verdiend heb om elke ochtend voor dag en dauw samen met de andere oude boeren uit de omgeving in een schommelstoel voor de lokale convenience store te zitten. Samen uitkijken over diezelfde katoenvelden, mopperen over de prijs van perzikken en pecans, en vooral heel veel koffie drinken. Om dan om tien uur eens zuchtend en steunend weg te rijden in mijn oude pick up truck om dat er nog zoveel te doen is, en anders moeder de vrouw gaat zeuren. En om dan voor de "afternoon pick-me-up" weer terug in mijn schommelstoel te kruipen. En dan alle stadse lui te bekijken die gehaast uit hun werk terugrijden, en hen elk van luid commentaar te voorzien. Dat lijkt me nou eens een goed plan.

En als ik nou volgend jaar eens eraan denk een fototoestel mee te nemen -voordat- het katoen geoogst wordt, dan kan ik jullie eindelijk ook eens beeld geven van hoe het hier utiziet. Dat lijkt me helemaal een geweldig idee.

Sister Wives

There are not a lot of shows on TLC that husband-dear will watch with me. In fact, up until a few weeks ago, there were none. He has absolutely no desire to watch brides-to-be spend an entire year's worth of mortgage payments on a wedding gown, or to watch a mother punch out child number 22. Or 23. Now I may lose my degree over this, but I love nothing more than watching women deal with a hundred children or the decision between satin or silk. I can feel braincells dying off as I watch these shows, but watching them is so relaxing, it's almost addictive.

Anyway, since a week or so, and actually as I'm typing this, my strong, tall, and manly man is watching TLC with me. And this is not a "O-M-G I am going to die but I'll watch it because I love you" watching. No, this is a "Oh good, we get to see the season finale after all, I wonder how it turned out with her walking away". And the show in question? Sister Wives.

For those of unfamilar with this show, Sister Wives is about a polygamous Mormon family; Kody the husband, three wives, a fourth on the way, and approximately sixteen children. It's indescribable. And that is really why husband-dear watches it. Sure, if you ask him he will give you some spiel about every man's dream, but in reality, he is as fascinated as I am. I mean, we just sat through a scene where husband, wife #1-#3 and fiancee (wife to be #4) tried wedding cake together and took a vote on which one to use for wedding #4. How often do you see that on national television?

I'm not sure what the result of bringing polygamy into mainstream American consciousnes will be. A general acceptance that perhaps the Fundamentalist Mormons are on to something, and the bible does command men to marry multiple wives, followed by an exponential increase in polygamy in the bible belt? Or will that same bible belt decide that Utah has really lost touch with Christian values, and start sending Christian missionaries out west? In all honesty, I'm not even sure -why- TLC would air such a show. Did the production assistant who came up with this concept decide it was high time to shed a positive light on polygamy after all the bad press it had been receiving since the fiasco in Texas?

Whatever the reason or the consequences, it is fascinating. And I honestly still don't understand why any man, or woman, would opt for the euphemistically named "multiple marriage". One is enough for me.

Lost for about thousand words

I think we can all safely agree that it's a very rare occasion when I'm lost for words. Whether in writing or verbally, I usually always have something to say about, well, just about everything. I'm not claiming it's always sensible. But it's something. And if I don't say it, which thank heavens I have learned to do over the past few decades, I'll usually end up writing it down here. So yes, need a blurb for an admissions brochure? Ask me. Need someone to proofread your speech? Ask me. Need a sentence/paragraph/chapter on anything related to mass communication/psychology/psychometry/athletics/academics/stepmothering/anything else that comes up, just ask me. I can generally whip something together, even if I have no idea what I'm writing about. I love playing with words, rephrasing sentences, and finding just the right phrase to express something. Now, I can't promise that when you actually think about what I just wrote, it will make any sense, but I can guarantee you that it will look pretty. And use proper punctuation. And at the end of the day, punctuation does matter.

But for the past two days, I have absolutely, completely, utterly stuck. Stuck as in I cannot for the life of me think of what to write. Stuck as in I have to tell myself "you have to write 500 words by tonight", something I didn't even have to do when writing my dissertation. And this is a bad stuck. Because this stuck concerns our department's self study. And my section of it is due on Tuesday. And I'm guessing I still have at least two thousand words to go. This self study is part of our program review which determines the future of our program. If we write a bad self study, I'm guessing our review won't be going very well, and well, we all know where that will lead (I'm thinking, "would you like some fries with that?"). So, yes. This. Is. A. Big. Deal.

Now I have gotten a lot done already. Four thousand three hundred and sixty-two words to be exact. Nine pages. But I still have two very important parts to finish. The first one entails me detailing how our program fits into the university's mission statement and strategic plan, and the second one requires that I address how our program dealt with the revisions suggested in the last program review. I've laid out the paragraphs, created a list of points I need to address, but I just can't seem to write a flowing narrative. I just can't. I mean, I'm really good at BSing, but this goes even beyond my powers.

So here I am. Stuck. I've cleaned the house, done laundry, tidied up our filing cabinet, and had tea, and nothing helps. I have one thousand words to go before I can leave my desk. One. Thousand. Wish me luck.

Talking like a duck

Recently, I've become obsessed with the way I've been pronouncing words like "ground" and "found". As I mentioned last week, my darling semi-offspring have been relentless about pointing out when my "ground" sounds country. Just yesterday, when I couldn't decide whether I should tell my students "researchers found that", or "researchers find that", my "found" came out sounding like the lovechild of "found" and "find, making it seem as as though I was born and raised in the south, which sent my students whooping and hollering. So hello self-consciousness. I mean, I love to blend in, but to sound like a native? No, thank you.

Now I do realize that I'm possibly a little more obsessed with what I sound like to others than most people. I've always wondered: do I sound southern? Midwestern? Or, worst of all, Dutch? I was the angsty teenager who would tape her speeches before she gave them, so she could make sure she could correct anything that didn't sound just right. I am the neurotic adult who will record her work voicemail, and then redo it three times because the inflection wasn't right. Or I slurred my name. Or pronounced my last name like an overzealous German.

For years, I assumed that everyone was as neurotic as I was. Am. But then I moved here. And met Dutch ladies who, after having lived in the US for forty years, spoke with an accent so thick you could use it slice bread, while claiming they spoke perfect, accent-free English. And politicians whose southern accent was so thick, they sounded like they had just walked off the set for Gone With The Wind or The Hillbillies.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for being who you are, and if that means talking with a "tick duts eccent' or like Boomhauer from King of the Hill, then go for it. I will love you just the same. But a little self-awareness would be nice. Don't claim to speak perfect American when you pronounce 'pan' like 'pen', and 'much' like 'muts'.

Oh, and on that note, can the real southern politicians please stand up? You see, I refuse to believe that every single Georgia politician really talks as though they just got off harvesting pecans and picking peaches. I mean, these men and women sound more southern than Jimmy Carter, Andy Griffith, and Tammy Wynette put together, while most born and bred Georgians I hear around me every day have reduced their southern accent to a "y'all" and a slight flattening of their vowels. I realize the appeal of sounding like "the common man", but people, you sound ridiculous. Mainly because all real Georgians know no real Georgian would have a Savannah 'r' (the British-sounding r used in Gone with the Wind) and a mountain-based country twang.

So, yes, I might be a little obsessed. And if someone could tell me why everyone keeps thinking I'm from southern Ohio/Missouri when those are two states I have never lived in, that would be great. Thanks.

Tornadoes and guano-bats

Weather in America is not something to be trifled with. Just like its cars, gun laws, and Vegas, American weather is A HUGE DEAL. It smacks you in the face, runs right over you, and leaves you half-frozen, melted into a puddle, or peddling on your bathroom door across what used to be a tranquil stream in a heartbeat. We have blizzards, hurricanes, droughts, deep freezes, heat waves, floods, tornadoes, and I just know someday we'll have locusts swarming the skies too.

Obviously, we don't get a whole lot of extremely cold weather in the south. I'm sure that all ya'll northerners think we have no right to explain seeing as how we're not buried in three feet of snow for 4/5/6 months out of the year, and I suppose you have a point. I mean, while you all are shoveling your driveways, scraping your car windows and dealing with black ice, we're deciding whether we can sip our sweet tea out on the front porch in a tee shirt or if we will need a cardigan. It is nice, and that is true. But that doesn't mean our weather can't get bat-guano crazy either. Because if there is one thing the south is known for, it's its extremely insane, over-the-edge, all-out-of-control storms. And hurricanes. And tornadoes. And rain storms. And thunder. And hail.

And yesterday, was one bat-guano-cat-lady crazy weather day. We had hail the size of golf balls, rain, winds, low-clouds, yellow, hazy skies, and the absolute darling of meteorologists: tornado watches.

Now if you just went, "WHAT?! You had a tornado?!", first of all, don't worry. We didn't. Secondly, you also need to stop being like me, and memorize your tornado terms. You see, after three years here, some time in Texas, and hordes of friends and family in the "tornado alley", you would think I would know the difference between a tornado warning and watch. But I don't.

So yesterday morning, when instead of waking up to Steve Innskeep and Renee Montagne we woke up to the hysterical beeping of the weather service, and a disembodied voice telling us, "A tornado watch is in effect until 10am this morning", I freaked out. I jumped out of bed, tripped over a dog, and looked out the window. Because you know, you want to definitely -see- the tornado before it annihilates your house. Anyway, husband-dear, who would be far more useful had there actually been a tornado in our backyard, got up, and said, "You do realize that a watch only means the conditions are right, right?"

Uhm.
No.

And this is why I have such a beef with the National Weather Service, or whatever they call themselves: The terms "tornado watch" and "tornado warning". A tornado watch means the conditions are right, which means it's humid, there's a low cloud ceiling, and hey, that's pretty much any storm in the south. Conversely, a tornado warning means a tornado has actually been spotted in your area, and you had better get your butt into shelter (definition: A small room on the inside of the house with no windows, which, if you live in the US, might be really hard to come by. In that case, prayer will work too. But only if you're southern baptist. I'm kidding. You can be a regular baptist too).

Why would anyone in their right mind pick two terms that are so dangerously similar? To me, I could just as easily argue that a watch means that a tornado has been spotted; you know, you're watching one go by, while a warning could mean that you have been warned that one might form. Not one of the memory aids that I've thought of ("a warning means you have to be really careful, it's right there", "a watch means you're on the lookout just in case", or my favorite, "R (waRning) comes before T (waTch), but it's worse, so it's like the opposite of the alphabet") works. I always freak out when I don't have to yet, and never understand why the sirens go off when they do.

So here is my suggestion. Let's change these terms. A tornado watch ( you know, when the conditions are right) will from now on be called a tornado advisory. Like a wind advisory. Or a snow advisory. There's no drama yet, but be careful. And a tornado warning will be known as a "OMG there's a tornado, you need to get your behind in the bunker NOW!".

Thank you. Now please excuse me while I call our insurance adjuster about the hail damage to our roof.

Calimero en een zelfstudie

Wist u dat eens in de vijf jaar elk studieprogramma in Georgia gereviewed moet worden? Nee? Nou ik ook niet. Nu weet ik wel meer dingen niet hoor. Helemaal omdat de universiteit hier wel meer dingen niet vertelt. Of half. En meestal vind ik dat wel best. Want als ik iets weet, dan betekent dat meestal meer werk voor mij. En dat heb ik al genoeg.

Nu ben ik gelukkig niet helemaal achterlijk, en heb ondertussen wel genoeg ervaring dat ik weet dat elk academisch programma -ooit- onder de loep genomen gaat worden. In Nederland heb ik er een paar mee mogen maken, en weet er dus genoeg van om te weten dat een bevalling er bij in het niets valt. Oh wacht. Dat weet ik niet. OK, dat het opvoeden van twee jongens er bij in het niets valt.

Maar goed, hoe vaak dit gebeurt voor universiteiten in Georgia, en wat het allemaal inhoudt, dat wist ik natuurlijk ook niet allemaal precies. Ik zeg wist, omdat ik sinds tien dagen namelijk wel weet. Sinds tien dagen weten we in mijn sectie namelijk dat elk programma om de vijf jaar aan de zelfstudie moet, en dat, tata! die van ons dit jaar aan de beurt is. En niet alleen dat, maar dat het zelfstudie rapport over, let op, twee weken af moet zijn. Een zelfstudie rapport waarvan de eisen alleen al tien pagina's beslaan. En dat, hiep hiep hoera!, ik in de commissie zit die het zelfstudie rapport mag schrijven. En dat dankzij de geweldige Amerikaanse efficientie er geen tien mensen in die commissie zitten, standaard voor Europese universiteiten, maar drie.

Ik kan u niet vertellen hoe gelukkig ik ben. Want naast het geven van zes vakken (waarvan er niet -een- online is, bijdeweg), het organiseren van de internationale week, waarvoor ik laatst ook al gestrikt ben (ik moet echt leren veel minder op te vallen, jeetje mina), het volgen van workshops over quality enhancement in education, en het werken aan mijn eigen onderzoek, mag ik nu dus ook elke vrije minuut besteden aan het beantwoorden van vragen als, "Discuss the rationale and data supporting program relationship to societal needs, employment opportunities, and graduate school admissions", of "Discuss the program's specific centrality to the university mission and strategic plan".

En het probleem is niet alleen dat ik echt geen tijd heb voor dit soort fratsen, maar eigenlijk ook dat ik het antwoord niet weet. Want zit de maatschappij nou echt te wachten op een zooitje onderzoekers, journalisten, redacteuren, en andere eigenwijze media-personen? Kijk, als we nou de faculteit geneeskunde waren, of onderwijskunde, of zelfs psychologie, waarbij je levens redt, mensen leert te onderwijzen, en onderzoekt waarom sommige mensen kinderen mishandelen/misbruiken/gebouwen opblazen, dan snapte ik het wel. Maar eigenlijk vind ik onszelf helemaal niet zo relevant.

Maar ja, dat mag ik vast niet in dat rapport zetten. En dus zit ik hier op een zondag middag met zicht op een prachtige zonovergoten achtertuin waarin de jongens met de honden spelen, achter mijn bureau. Take it away, Calimero, zou ik zeggen..

"...en dat is niet eerlijk!"

Slow, slower, slowest

I really don't know who made up the notion that life in the south is somehow slower than the rest of the world, but he was obviously out of his mind. Yes, it's a he. There is no way any southern woman in her right mind would ever have the time to sit down and come up with something as ludicrous as that. Between all her cooking, peeling, baking, quilting, crocheting, reading the bible, killing flies and other unwanted bugs, raising the kids, skinning the dead animals and gutting the fish that her husband brings home, southern women barely had time to walk to the outhouse, let alone wax lyrical about the south. They were too busy being the south.

Anyway, quite obviously the point I'm trying to make here is that life in the south is anything but slow. In fact, I would go as far as to claim that my life has never been crazier since I moved down here. I know, not all southerners drive 90 miles to get to work, and the point could be made that I'm the exception. But in all honesty, I doubt that. In my time here, I haven't seen a whole lot of front-porch-rocking-sweet-tea-drinking-breeze-shooting. All I see are people doing yard work, driving their kids to and from cheerleading, football, gymnastics, aquaknots, French club, Spanish club, band, taking online classes, getting home from work late, and baking meals for sick people. Southerners make talk slowly, but their life is anything but.

And you know how some people will tell you that southerners are known for their tardiness? Or that they're always forgetting things and never seem in a rush to get anywhere? Well, I've figured that one out too. And it's not what you think.

You see, all of that is because they're all just busy. It's not that they don't care. Or can't bring themselves to stick to basic etiquette like punctuality and proper pronunciation. Take myself, for instance. I am, or used to be anyway, the human embodiment of punctuality. I abhor being late for anything. I hate it when other people are late. I give students zeroes when they're late, as well as the stink-eye. But lately, it seems as though I've been late for just about everything; from class, to appointments, to meeting for coffee with friends. It's what happens when you have fourteen hours of work to squeeze into an eight hour workday. There is just nothing like running into a class at three minutes after, to find the entire class staring at you reproachfully to make you feel incredibly on-top of things. And when you're constantly running from one event to the next, you end up forgetting things. Like graded papers, or assignment sheets, or your books. Or stopping at a gas station to get gas. Or putting on your hose while getting ready to leave the house in the morning. It's a whole new level of insanity. And then when you finally don't have anywhere to be five minutes ago, you know you better cherish that moment. So you will take your time making up your mind at the vending machine. Or in line at the convenience store. Because you know that the moment you're done, life will hit you in the behind at full speed once again.

Even the way southerners drawl their words can be attributed to their busy lives. Seriously, ask your significant other to wake you up in the middle of the night, and ask you to say something. Chances are you will sound like someone out of King of the Hill or Designing Women. You know how a lot of non-native speakers get a thicker accent when they're tired? Well, not me. Recently, every single two-legged member of my household has poked fun at me for alternately saying "ground", "there", and "right" in what can only be described as a very southern country-bumpkin way.

So, all this nonsense about southerners being slow needs to stop. Really. 'Cause we're not