Happy Halloween

Halloween is upon us this day, and down here in Georgia, this means that the state temporarily turns orange. There are the carved pumpkins, the lavish Halloween decorations, the scramble for costumes, and of course planning of the trick-or-treating. But when it comes to Halloween, living in Georgia adds a whole new dimension.

Georgia has been called one of the most haunted states in the south. With old cities like Savannah and plenty of gruesome history, all the way from the civil war to the civil rights movement, there are enough ghost stories going around to last a lifetime. Ghost stories are such an integral part of daily life, that even serious news stations like NPR had an anchor from a Georgia station read out a “true” southern ghost story on Morning Edition today. Theirs featured the southern version of the bogeyman; the boo-daddy and the hoo-hag.

Now I wouldn’t be much of a cultural anthropologist if I didn’t share at least one good Georgia ghost story with you today. This one is called “The blue girl”, and although it should be read in a thick southern accent, I am going to leave that one up to your imagination.

“About forty miles north of Atlanta in rapidly growing Forsyth County is a pretty covered bridge known as Poole's Mill Bridge. It's one of the few covered bridges left in Georgia - or anywhere, for that matter. At one time the sagging old bridge was in such bad shape that it about fell into the creek below. But the county built a nearby park and restored the covered bridge to its original state. So now, as in years past, the bridge is a really nice spot to have a family picnic, or a romantic afternoon with your sweetheart, or just to stop by to enjoy a nice wade in the creek.
That's exactly what one young family did on a bright summer day back in the 1930s. At that time there was a grist mill operating near the bridge, which is how Poole's Mill got its name. The mill was first built in the early 1800s by a Cherokee named George Welch. But he was tragically forced out of Georgia by the government and sent out west along the notorious Trail of Tears. Even though another family took over the grist mill and ran it successfully for years, some say the area was forever cursed by the wrong done to Mr. Welch.
The young family I mentioned earlier included a Daddy, a Mama and their nine-year- old daughter. They were traveling through the area when they saw the pretty bridge and thought they'd stop for a picnic just upstream from the mill. Mama and Daddy spread a blanket on a tiny hill while their daughter ran down to the creek.
"Watch yourself down there!" yelled Mama after her daughter.
But the young girl didn't pay her any mind. It was hot as the devil's kitchen, and that cool water sure looked tempting. So the young girl kicked off her shoes and socks, hiked up her dress and jumped into that cool water. hat nobody knew that day was that recent rains had made the creek deeper and more trecherous than it seemed. In no time, the current suddenly swept the young girl away. Mama and Daddy heard her screams and ran down to the creek bank. Then they gazed in horror at what lay ahead.
Their daughter was floating downstream toward the grist mill.
Her daddy dove into the water and frantically swam after her. He was a strong swimmer, and with the help of the current he inched closer and closer to his screaming daughter. But she was being sucked toward the large water wheel that creaked and groaned in the rushing water like some wounded monster.
"Hold on sweetheart!" screamed Daddy, his mouth filling with the rushing water.
Daddy lunged for the big blue bow on the back of his daughter's dress, his fingertips mere inches from her. Then with one final, blood curdling scream, his daughter was sucked under the water wheel. The mill creaked to a halt, and Daddy knew with sickening certainty that his daughter was wedged under the wheel.
By this time the mill workers had heard her screams. They dove into the water to help save her. But by the time they pried her from the slimy wooden teeth of the water wheel, it was too late. The pretty young girl had drowned, her face as blue as the bow on her dress.
The story spread like wildfire through the community. Devastated, the young couple left the state with the body of their daughter and never returned. No one knew their names, but the young victim was forever known around town as the Blue Girl.
Several years later, the old grist mill mysteriously burned to the ground and the pretty bridge fell into neglect. Until the county built the nice new park I mentioned earlier, many an old timer wondered what was really happening out at the old Poole's Mill. Had the Blue Girl returned to avenge her death? Or was it the curse of the Cherokee George Welch…..?” (source: www.themoonlitroad.com)

Happy hauntings everyone!

Verdwaald

In het gebied in Georgia waar ik woon, wonen de meeste mensen in zogenaamde subdivisions. En subdivision is eigenlijk niets meer dan een wijk waarin de huizen door dezelfde builder gebouwd zijn, met een naam en een of meerere ingagen waar deze naam vermeld staat op vaak een monumentaal stenen bord, eentje waar meerdere oorlogsmonumenten in Europa nog iets van zouden kunnen leren.

De populariteit van de subdivision hier in het zuiden komt voornamelijk omdat dit gedeelte van Georgia tot zo’n vijftig jaar geleden niet zo heel veel voorstelde. Er waren wat boerderijen, en misschien een paar winkels, en niet veel meer. Met de uitvinding van de airconditioning en de komst van de luchtmachtbasis is dit in rap tempo veranderd. Er stroomden in een keer duizenden mensen het gebied binnen, die allemaal ergens moesten wonen. Dus kochten project ontwikkelaars grote stukken landbouwgrond op voor weinig, en begonnen hier hele wijken op te bouwen. De subdivisions dus. Wij wonen ook in zo’n subdivision, en om eerlijk te zijn weet ik nog niet zo heel goed wat ik er van moet vinden.

De meeste mensen die ik ken vinden het fijn om in een subdivision te wonen. Er rijden maar weinig auto’s, diegenen die voorbij komen moeten heel langzaam rijden, er zijn vaak stoepen (iets dat je aan een gewone straat hier niet zo vaak zal zien), de huizen zijn vaak vrij nieuw, en je woont in negen van de tien keer op een acceptabele afstand van scholen, winkels, en werk. Ik zie zeker het voordeel van een subdivision als je bedenkt dat wanneer je gewoon aan een straat woont die niet “subdivided” is, het best wel eens kan dat de county besluit de weg die voor je deur loopt te verbreden. Dan kun je als huiseigenaar hoog en laag sprinen, maar uiteindelijk wint de county en ben je doodleuk de helft, of meer, van je voortuin kwijt. Ook is het heel goed mogelijk dat het veld of bos naast je huis verkocht wordt, en dat daar een tankstation/mini-mall/kerk/subdivision op gebouwd wordt. En dat zit je daar, in je eens zo rustieke huis. En wederom is er vrij weinig tegen te beginnen. Denk overigens niet dat dit maar weinig zal gebeuren. In de bijna anderhalf jaar dat ik nu in dit gebied woon zijn al twee wegen van twee extra banen voorzien, en zijn er, bij mijn weten, minstens drie mega-kerken, een Publix, en een stripmall bijgebouwd. En wat dus eerst prachtige country homes in het bos waren, zijn nu, sja, prachtige country homes naast een oerlelijk gebouw met heel veel aanloop.

Maar als we heel eerlijk zijn, zouden wij het liefste ergens weggestopt in een bos wonen, zonder buren, en met nog net een verharde weg voor de deur. Een subdivision vinden wij toch net iets te netjes. En dat gevoel komt voornamelijk door het “cookie cutter” effect; het idee dat de huizen in zo’n wijk vaak enorm op elkaar lijken. We hebben nu het geluk dat in onze subdivision geen enkel model huis twee keer staat, en de huizen ook nog eens ver van elkaar af staan, maar dit is eerder de uitzondering dan de regel. Het huis dat wij vorig jaar huurden stond in een wijk waar er maar drie modellen waren. En ook al was elk huis anders wat betreft siding (vinyl of steen), kleur, en luiken, de wijk zag er toch uit als iets dat je uit een legodoos haalt. Dit soort subdivisions herken je ook vaak aan de eindeloze rij witte brievenbussen die als soldaten in het gelid langs de weg staan. Het is, in onze optiek dan, teveel van hetzelfde.

En dat subdivisions nog een ander bijkomend nadeel hebben heb ik gisteren aan den lijve mogen ondervinden. Wat een trainingsloopje van zes mijl (zo’n tien kilometer) moest worden, werd namelijk een lichte uitputtingsslag van acht mijl (dertien kilometer) omdat ik verdwaald raakte in een subdivision. Denk erbij dat het berekoud was gisteren, donker, en ik nog geen avondeten had gehad, en je kan je voorstellen dat ik even niet zo blij was het hele subdivision fenomeen. Op de heenweg ging het prima. Het was nog licht, en ik was blij een nieuwe route in een nieuwe wijk gevonden te hebben. Het was pas op de terugweg dat ik erachter kwam hoe verschrikkelijk de huizen op elkaar leken. Ze waren allemaal van donkerrode baksteen, hadden allemaal witte pilaren, en een dubbele garage. Er waren geen grote bomen om te gebruiken als herkenningspunt, de brievenbussen waren allemaal hetzelfde, en alle auto’s stonden in de garages. Na meerdere keren verkeerd gelopen te zijn (“nee, die grote opblaasbare en verlichte pompoen had ik echt wel onthouden”), en zelfs een paar keer in rondjes (“Goh, daar zie ik alweer die enorme pompoen!”), kwam ik uiteindelijk, hemelzijdank, uit op een grote provinciale weg die ik herkende. Maar ja, toen had ik er al zes mijl opzitten, en moest ik zeker nog twee mijl voor ik thuis zou zijn. Ondertussen was manlief ervan overtuigd dat ik een ongeluk had gehad, en stond al klaar om me te gaan zoeken toen ik om acht uur eindelijk de keuken binnen viel.

Ik kan niet wachten tot we echt in het bos wonen. Voor nu zie ik het maar als een “learning experience”, en heb al een kleine notitie gemaakt: Ga in Amerika nooit hardlopen in een subdivision in het donker.

p.s. For all the lovely Anglophiles: it's about subdivisions and getting lost while running:) I'm sure you'll hear the whole story sooner or later.

The Kingdom of Narnia

I don’t know if I’ll be able to blog today. Or at least for a very long time. You see, sitting at my computer means turning away from my space heater, which means that the 60-degree freeze that is our building hits me in full blast.

I have never ever given a second thought to office temperature. I have never had to. You see, up until last year, I have always worked in departments that were geared towards research. Wherever you looked, there were piles of questionnaires, students coding surveys, or conducting content analysis on a variety of media, people at computers analyzing data, struggling to write a killer of an opening paragraph, and trying to finish that perfect research grant. Because people spent most of their days sitting behind desks, with the maximum amount of movement coming from their fingers dancing across their keyboards, the buildings were always kept at cozy temperatures. Each office even had its own radiator, so that the occupant could easily adjust the temperature to their needs. Since conducting research is probably the least rewarding job in the world (although I will put keeping a McDonald’s restaurant clean in second place), we had everything at our disposal to make our stay as pleasant as possible. We had electric kettles in our offices for tea and coffee, cute little lamps over our desks, and those deskchairs that can be adjusted in every way possible, and that will even allow a brief nap if you so feel inclined.

But then last year I started work at a department where media production is a main focus. Besides meaning that all the money is funneled towards paying for new equipment and macs, and there are no funds for pretty deskchairs, cozy lamps, or electric kettles, it also has a profound effect on my daily comfort level. You see, equipment used in television, radio, and film needs to kept at around 60 degrees. If it’s stored at temperatures higher than that, it starts to break down. And when you pay around $3000 per handheld camera, that is something you cannot afford. Because our offices are surrounded by studios, control rooms, and storage rooms, the entire mass communication section of the building is kept at a spartan 62 degrees (16C). In summertime this is a little on the cool side, but it’s acceptable. There are tall windows everywhere which offer enough sunshine that most offices are still reasonable. But come wintertime, it’s, well, pardon the expression, hell on wheels. Last night we had one of the coldest October nights in Georgia at near-freezing, and today the temperature is not expected to get above the low 40s (4C). Combine that with a building temperature that barely squeaks over 62F, and you have one very unhappy DixieChick. It’s so cold my wedding ring is threatening to fall off my finger, and I can’t feel my right little toe anymore. And I would complain (you all know I would), but there’s really no point since I know no one’s doing this on purpose. Sometimes people down the hall, who are not in our department, but who do share our HVAC system, come and complain. In fact, some people get so upset, it has led to some interesting feuds, but there is really nothing we can do. Except be cold and frustrated. And buy a space heater. And drinks lots of really hot coffee. And write a blog about it.

So please excuse me. I really have to turn around and warm my hands before they’re really frozen.

CoinStar Magic

When talking about money and spending habits, many Europeans I know will bring up the inevitable: that all Americans apparently live off their credit cards. Now although I know this statement seems to belong in last week’s post on stereotypes, I thought that in light of the current economic crisis I would give it an entire post of its own.

My starting point, though, is going to be the same as last week: not all Americans live like that. Of course, I know some who live from surviving one credit card payment to the next, and even some who have gotten themselves in way over their heads. But I also know many Americans who are nothing like that. They live off what they earn, put away a little in savings each month, only use their credit cards sparingly, and when they do, pay them off immediately. My husband and I would be the prime example of such (Dutch) Americans.

Now I don’t think I would call myself or husband-dear stingy, or even frugal. Instead I like to think of us as economically efficient. We are the kind of who will fret over every large (read everything over $150) purchase. Endlessly. I mean in the sense that buying a new loveseat took two months. We are also the kind who will feel guilty when splurging on something frivolous such as new light fixtures when the old ones still work fine. In our very practical world the ugliness of something is never really an excuse to replace it, not even when your current lights look like something out of a 1930s French boudoir. So you can imagine my relief when the old (and quite hideous, in my opinion) couch, finally became too soft to make a comfortable seat. And finally, we are the type of people who will put off a lot of things for, well forever. We’re still debating on whether to get a ($60) Senseo machine, for instance, because having two coffeemakers seems so, well, decadent. Right. Now I don’t want to create the impression that we don’t enjoy life. We do. We just seem to have a certain Calvinistic attitude about it.

So this past weekend, with Christmas coming up, and a few expensive months behind us, we decided to keep it low-key. No trips to musicals in Atlanta (although Wicked was more than worth it), no more trips to La-Z-Boy to purchase new loveseats (it’s coming in two weeks!), and no crazy dining out at the best sushi restaurant in town. We decided to spend a weekend at home, enjoying all the comforts we already have; our dog, our bikes, the outdoors, the TV, and our large DVD collection, in no particular order.

So after a semi-lazy Saturday, in which we still managed to knock out some serious chores, a puppy class, a music lesson, laundry, and a run out of the way, husband-dear and I were hanging out in front of the TV, when we decided it would be fun to go out and do something. Anything really. But we had promised ourselves we wouldn’t splurge. So what does a frugal, excuse me, economically efficient, couple do at such a moment? Yes, we went for our loose change jar. My husband has a huge German steiner on his dresser, that we have, over the past year or so, managed to fill to the very top with all of our loose change. In a moment very much reminiscent of my days in college, we loaded ourselves and our jar into our car, and drove to the nearest Publix for their CoinStar machine.

The CoinStar machine is probably one of the better American inventions. It’s a machine that will take all of your change in a hole in the top, take off 8% (one of its lesser points), and present you with a receipt for the amount of money you can go pick up at customer service.

Now I have to say that if there is one thing I learned that day it’s that saving your change is definitely worth it. I had guessed our change jar held about $10, my husband, claiming I was way off, estimated we had about $20 in there. In the end, we walked away with $68 in cash. And because it really felt like money we had just found somewhere, we felt no qualms about splurging it all. So our low-key weekend turned out to be not so low-key after all. And I guarantee you all, I have already started saving all of our change again.

A rock and a mountainside

From a student’s paper:

“After World War I, everyone in Germany was suffering except the Jews. Hitler could not figure out how they were the only ones not going through a depression....In an attempt to do that (purify the world), he created a concentration camp. The concentration camp included those with Down syndrome, African Americans, and Jews”

After having ranted and raged at a co-worker about this fragment, written some very fierce comments in the margin, and brought up the apparent lack of a proper history curriculum in Georgia secondary education with my coordinator, I have nothing left but to be absolutely gobsmacked by the above paragraph.

So how did this come about? Well, I teach a class on propaganda, where one of the assignment is to watch a German propaganda movie and analyze it in terms of propaganda tactics. During the screening I got some very unexpected questions about the war. Questions such as when the second world war began, why it started, what the Jews had to do with it, and how Japan tied into it all. I diligently gave what I assumed to be a brief refresher course on the basics of the second world war. I assumed the students had learned all of this (my kids learned about the holocaust as early as second grade), and had merely forgotten the details among all the other important things they have to keep track of, such as who is dating whom, when the next kegger is, and which club is the hottest in town. But this paragraph really made me wonder if students, and this student in particular, truly understand the basics of one of the worst wars the world has ever seen.

I know that among my students, slavery, the civil war, segregation, and the civil rights movement has always held a primary position in their understanding of American history. After all, these developments defined who and where they are today. However, to state that the Jews were the only ones not suffering after the first world war is ignorant at best, and anti-semitic at worst. And to not understand that world war two was actually a battle where African Americans were not the victims, and to relegate the main victims of that war to a third place in a list where the other the one other target group was never as high high on the Germans’ list (people with Down’s Syndrome) is almost offensive.

I know the student meant no harm. I know this is probably the result of poor education. But part of me also realizes it’s a result of students simply not caring. In their world view, 1940 was a hundred years ago, and the present is far more interesting than something that has only been captured in grainy black-and-white film. And for me that attitude is almost impossible to swallow. The ignorance that fueled the second world war, was the same that allowed segregation, lynchings and racism to persist for so long. How is it that a few students, in spite of all of my explaining, lecturing, and ranting, don’t understand that?

When I visited Auschwitz a few years ago, I took many things away from it, but one lesson I will remember for the rest of my life: Everyone is capable of such atrocities. If you are taught all the wrong (or right I suppose) things, and are cut off from all alternative voices, you too could become programmed into believing some people are simply not human, and thus don’t deserve to be treated as such. And it all starts with ignorance. Not knowing the facts, and not caring about the facts. Only complete understanding of our past, and all of it, can help us prevent such horrors from ever occurring again.

Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus. With a very large rock and an endless mountainside.

Pride and prejudice

Did you know that people need stereotypes to function? I never did until a dozen and something years ago when a psychology professor taught us that people use “schemata”, i.e., standard interpretations, to make sense of the world around them. Apparently you simply don’t have the mental capacity to create a new definition of every single thing you see. So when some people see a blond, little woman (like myself), they really can’t help the fact that they will think “cheerleader turned soccer mom” as opposed to “professor”. Apparently stereotypes and prejudices are essential to prevent someone from completely losing their mind due to stimulation-overload. This, however, does not mean that people can’t adjust their schemata. Education and experience will confront people with situations that do not match their schemata so often, that people will have no choice but to alter their set interpretations.

Now when you live overseas, stereotypes really do become part of your daily life. There are your own stereotypes about Americans, people’s stereotypes about Dutch people, and then of course, Dutch friends’ stereotypes about Americans. And I have to admit that the latter bug me the most. Especially when people who have only visited the US sporadically, judge Americans as though they have spent their entire two-week vacation surveying a representative sample of all 300 million Americans about a wide variety of topics. So in light of that I thought I would address some of the stereotypes I hear the most often.

1. Americans are loud
This one is really true. But you know what, if everyone is loud, you really can’t tell. The American propensity to interact a little louder than say a group of demure British ladies from the home counties only becomes obvious when the Americans are no longer in their natural environment. And let’s be honest here, can’t we all point at some slightly embarrassing or annoying behavior exhibited by our own nationality that only becomes obvious when we’re among foreigners? I thought so.

2. Americans are either really overweight or look like Barbie dolls.
I first heard this one when we lived in France and attended an American school, and various American moms were always really dolled up, while several others were really obese. Admittedly, there are a lot of obese Americans. And it is true that there is a specific group of, mainly southern, women, who has made it their life goal, through the use of botox, eighties hairdos, lots of make-up, and fifties clothing, to resemble the more traditional Barbie dolls. But when I look around me, I see a lot of really just normal people. Some may have bigger butts, or hips, or a little belly, but I doubt that’s a trait reserved only for Americans. It’s true that Americans in the south spend maybe a little more time on their looks than Dutch people do, but most don’t even come close to a Barbie doll. And in all honestly, the last time I was in the Netherlands, I wasn’t exactly under the impression that it was a country full of lean, well-trained people either.

3. Everything in America is big.
You got me there. Houses, at least in my neck of the woods, are definitely bigger than they are in Holland. Grocery stores here make the Dutch Albert Heijn seem like a Chevron quick-mart, and just our local Target is big enough to house a soccer stadium. Roads are wider, parking spaces are bigger, glasses are taller, and serving sizes are enormous. And did you know that furniture is bigger than it is in Europe too? I heard that although Ikea may carry the same furniture here as it does in Holland, it’s all actually a few inches bigger than in Europe. The only change I’ve seen over the past few years is that American cars don’t seem that much bigger than their European counterparts anymore. I think this is in part because rising fuel prices over here have forced people to buy more economical cars, and in part because Europeans have begun to appreciate the luxury of American SUVs.

4. Americans are superficial.
This last stereotype really annoys me beyond belief. I hear it very often in conjunction with something like “We were on vacation and met a lot of Americans. They’re so nice, and they’ll always talk to you, even though they are, of course, very superficial”, or “Americans are nice, but they never get beyond the superficial”. Right, and so you’re telling me you expect strangers to forgo the “Where are you from” and “What do you do” and jump straight into questions such as “So would you say your relationship is fulfilling all your emotional and physical needs”? Because we all know that Dutch people, when seeing other Dutch people, will immediately drop everything they’re doing, walk over, greet you, and try to find out everything about you. People who come from a country where wishing strangers a “good morning” results in odd looks at best really shouldn’t comment on another country’s social habits.
I have been racking my brain, and I really can’t for the life of me figure out how Americans are superficial. I actually think it has nothing to do with Americans, and all to do with the Dutch. You see, the Dutch, when they first meet you, will adopt the “kat uit de boom kijken” approach, i.e., let’s wait and see. They’ll introduce themselves, say hello, and then they’ll retreat to observe whether or not they like you. Dutch people don’t do a lot of small talk, and they are only nice to people they really like, their friends and family. So when Americans are nice to them, even though they may have only just met, I’m guessing that Dutch people automatically look at them as friends, and thus expect a whole lot more than small talk.
Look, I really don’t know. I just made that up, obviously. All I know is that I think Americans are some of the nicest people I have met, and once they become your friends, you can have the most in-depth and profound conversations with them.

After listening all of these, I just realized I may have just developed my first real overseas stereotype about Dutch people: They like using stereotypes. Wait, I'm Dutch. We like using stereotypes!

Mail's up

Recently I have been forgetting to check our mail. I’ll be halfway to work, and realize that neither myself nor husband-dear remembered to look in our mailbox the day before. Or on a Saturday night we’ll discover that someone made a dumb mistake somewhere, while the piece of mail has been in our mailbox since Thursday. This last Sunday, for instance, we found out that the county tax commissioner’s office suddenly decided we own two plots of land in a neighboring town and now owe them $500 in taxes. Let me assure you that discovering slightly disconcerting facts like that on a day when you can’t reach anyone is not conducive for a relaxing morning (After deciding we would just sell the land and retire off the money we felt slightly better though).

Anyway, I blame our forgetfulness about our mail on our mailbox. You see, at our old house we had one of those standard mailboxes: white pole, white box with a flap that always stuck when you opened it, and a little red flag. Everyone in our street had the same one, in the same place at the end of their driveway. And when you came home from work, you drove right by the bright white mailbox, so it was easy to remember to check for mail. Well, now that we have moved to a larger house, in a neighborhood with larger lots, the architects seemingly felt that all-white mailboxes would be too tacky. A nice house apparently has to have a mailbox that matches. In fact, I’ve discovered that this is a commonly-held belief in Georgia; the fancier the house, the fancier, and bigger, the mailbox. So instead of simply little metal boxes on poles, all the houses on our circle have large brick columns with the mailbox set inside them. The previous owners planted a small palm tree on one side of our column, and some purple flowers on the other side and it looks lovely. So lovely in fact that I apparently forget we have a mailbox in there at all. Many times I will find myself looking out at the front yard, and thinking how lovely it looks to have a brick column surrounded by plants at the foot of the driveway.

Besides causing me to forget we even have a mailbox, these mailbox-column-contraptions have also created another problem, at least for my neighbors: where do you put the stickers betraying your social/political/collegiate affiliation? In our old neighborhood, people would adorn their mailboxes with a whole array of ornaments, from Georgia bulldog stickers to Virginia Tech banners to little slipcovers for each season. You can’t do that when you don’t have a metal mailbox. Fortunately, some lucky soul came up with a solution to that problem as well. So a few of our neighbors have little red flags in the color of their favorite football team, or with a little “T’ for the Tennessee Vols at the end. Other people put a cover on the flap of the mailbox, or drill a hook in the side of their column for banners and other contraptions. The prize for creativity, however, is won by a family a little down our street. They have a two columns one on either side of the driveway, and both are adorned with a little statuette of a bulldog wearing a red sweater. While at first I thought this was just an example of people’s love for animals gone slightly overboard, I quickly learned that the statuette was supposed to resemble Uga (pronounced as “uggah”) , the official University of Georgia at Athens (UGA) bulldog.

Being Dutch, and far too down to earth for any such expressions, I have left our mailbox alone. Personally, I still marvel at the magic of the little red flag. I mean, when you think about it, isn’t it amazing that in this country you don’t have to wonder for miles trying to find a mailbox that hasn’t been removed or destroyed? All you have to do is put your mail in your mailbox, turn up the flag, and the postal worker simply picks it up for you. And because someone in the US Post Office has yet to acquire a recent street map, we are considered a “rural mail area”, which means that every month we get a little envelop in our mailbox which allows us to order stamps, which the postal carrier then delivers to our mailbox a few days later. So I don’t need any decoration to make my mail-experience special. It’s a miracle all in itself (whenever I remember anyway).