(no subject)
I've officially lived in Hastings for a whole week, as of Saturday morning. Such a short time...and yet it seems so long, when I think of everything I've seen and done and learned since then. It's always this way at the beginning of a semester, though: the first two weeks take an eternity and then you blink and the rest of the term whips by at lightening speed.
It was a good weekend. There was less helpless sitting-around, and more doing things combined with purposeful relaxation (as opposed to forced relaxation, which occurs when there's no alternative ways to pass the time). Saturday morning I made a determined push and plowed through to the end of the book Alana lent me, "The Denniston Rose." This historical novel is set in an isolated mining community on New Zealand's South Island in the late nineteenth century. It was quite historically detailed, and a compelling story, too, both of which atoned for the inconsistent tense (past tense one paragraph and present the next - that's one of my pet peeves as a reader - just make a choice and stick with it, for goodness' sake!) and the occasional foray into the trite or overly sentimental. Anyway, it's quite a popular book in this corner of the world, or so I'm told (a claim that was backed up when I saw several different versions of "The Denniston Rose" in a bookstore I popped into the other day). "The Denniston Rose" also inspired a piece (or several?) of music, written by a New Zealand composer - which is why Alana was so keen for me to get a sense of what the book was about. New Zealand school-age music students are required to study a certain number of New Zealand compositions each year. Given the fact that New Zealand's population is equal to or less than that of the state of Minnesota, and it does not have a renowned musical legacy, it sounds like a bit of a task for music teachers to come up with suitable local works.
Saturday afternoon I went to Ocean Beach with Amanda. It was stunningly beautiful, but that goes without saying. Last night, Amanda received an email from a friend in Britain who was asking if she'd heard about the dolphins "at Ocean Beach, North Island" who rescued swimmers from a Great White, but we were unsure if it was the same Ocean Beach or not. At any rate, we didn't see dolphins or sharks while we were there. In fact, we didn't go near the water at all - it was very rough and signs said it was unsafe. Memories of the little boy who drowned in Napier the other week kept us away from those choppy waves! (The sad thing about this Napier boy was the fact that he wasn't swimming at all. He was just walking along the beach with his family when an exceptionally violent wave grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out to sea before anyone could pull him back.) The weather was interesting. Amanda and I have been having an ongoing conversation about how it's usually hard to find any clothes suitable for the weather - no matter what you put on, it's either too warm or too cold, or sometimes both in the same day. But the beach on Saturday was the opposite: I felt I would have been fine no matter what I wore. I was lounging in my swimming suit ("togs") but I would have been quite comfortable in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Weird!
Saturday evening passed as usual, though I stayed up about an hour later than usual. Also I worked on several crossword puzzles, but since it was the weekend I didn't force myself to finish any of them. Man, I've got to rein myself in before I get out of control!
Sunday I talked on the phone with my dad (though it was Saturday afternoon where he was - I still can't get over how weird that is). Amanda and I went out "for a cuppa" with two of her friends, then I went for a long walk to take in the beautiful scenery on the edge of town. I also tried to tan my feet, but without much success. See, I've been wearing my flip flops ("jandals") quite a lot, and I've also gotten very tan (for me - mildly tan to not-at-all tan if we're talking about someone else here, like maybe Julia or Katy). Jandals + tan = awkward white feet lines. So I went barefoot for my whole walk, hoping to get some sun on those little white stripes, but alas. It was to no avail. I still look like I'm wearing nut-colored spats, or like I have hobbit feet.
The only drawback to the weekend is that Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat and a runny nose. Those foreign germs waited no time in attacking! Today I've been blowing my nose like I'm preparing to audition for first chair trumpet of the Philadelphia Orchestra under Arturo Toscanini. I had to leave assembly this morning because between the stuffy sinuses, standing the whole time, the heat, and my voracious hunger, I was afraid I would pass out (which would NOT set a very good example for the students!). By 12:30, I guess I looked so miserable that Alana sent me home - by way of her house, where she instructed me to ask her husband for lemons to mix with honey and put in tea. I wasn't sure what this meant, but when I got there and made the appropriate request, Keith marched out to the backyard and picked five fresh, yellow lemons off a small tree! I'm not sure I've ever smelled anything so delicious as those lemons. Mixed with local manuka honey, it was ambrosia for the gods (if you'll excuse the time-worn metaphor)!
Today we finally have the hot, muggy weather I've been waiting for. I'd be in heaven, if my skin weren't crawling in such an unpleasant way. Thanks to those little germs, I am not sitting on the veranda, tanning my feet and sipping lemonade (ooh, that's what I should do with those last four lemons! good idea). Instead, I'm draped limply across the couch, feeling sorry for myself. Sigh.
It was a good weekend. There was less helpless sitting-around, and more doing things combined with purposeful relaxation (as opposed to forced relaxation, which occurs when there's no alternative ways to pass the time). Saturday morning I made a determined push and plowed through to the end of the book Alana lent me, "The Denniston Rose." This historical novel is set in an isolated mining community on New Zealand's South Island in the late nineteenth century. It was quite historically detailed, and a compelling story, too, both of which atoned for the inconsistent tense (past tense one paragraph and present the next - that's one of my pet peeves as a reader - just make a choice and stick with it, for goodness' sake!) and the occasional foray into the trite or overly sentimental. Anyway, it's quite a popular book in this corner of the world, or so I'm told (a claim that was backed up when I saw several different versions of "The Denniston Rose" in a bookstore I popped into the other day). "The Denniston Rose" also inspired a piece (or several?) of music, written by a New Zealand composer - which is why Alana was so keen for me to get a sense of what the book was about. New Zealand school-age music students are required to study a certain number of New Zealand compositions each year. Given the fact that New Zealand's population is equal to or less than that of the state of Minnesota, and it does not have a renowned musical legacy, it sounds like a bit of a task for music teachers to come up with suitable local works.
Saturday afternoon I went to Ocean Beach with Amanda. It was stunningly beautiful, but that goes without saying. Last night, Amanda received an email from a friend in Britain who was asking if she'd heard about the dolphins "at Ocean Beach, North Island" who rescued swimmers from a Great White, but we were unsure if it was the same Ocean Beach or not. At any rate, we didn't see dolphins or sharks while we were there. In fact, we didn't go near the water at all - it was very rough and signs said it was unsafe. Memories of the little boy who drowned in Napier the other week kept us away from those choppy waves! (The sad thing about this Napier boy was the fact that he wasn't swimming at all. He was just walking along the beach with his family when an exceptionally violent wave grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out to sea before anyone could pull him back.) The weather was interesting. Amanda and I have been having an ongoing conversation about how it's usually hard to find any clothes suitable for the weather - no matter what you put on, it's either too warm or too cold, or sometimes both in the same day. But the beach on Saturday was the opposite: I felt I would have been fine no matter what I wore. I was lounging in my swimming suit ("togs") but I would have been quite comfortable in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Weird!
Saturday evening passed as usual, though I stayed up about an hour later than usual. Also I worked on several crossword puzzles, but since it was the weekend I didn't force myself to finish any of them. Man, I've got to rein myself in before I get out of control!
Sunday I talked on the phone with my dad (though it was Saturday afternoon where he was - I still can't get over how weird that is). Amanda and I went out "for a cuppa" with two of her friends, then I went for a long walk to take in the beautiful scenery on the edge of town. I also tried to tan my feet, but without much success. See, I've been wearing my flip flops ("jandals") quite a lot, and I've also gotten very tan (for me - mildly tan to not-at-all tan if we're talking about someone else here, like maybe Julia or Katy). Jandals + tan = awkward white feet lines. So I went barefoot for my whole walk, hoping to get some sun on those little white stripes, but alas. It was to no avail. I still look like I'm wearing nut-colored spats, or like I have hobbit feet.
The only drawback to the weekend is that Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat and a runny nose. Those foreign germs waited no time in attacking! Today I've been blowing my nose like I'm preparing to audition for first chair trumpet of the Philadelphia Orchestra under Arturo Toscanini. I had to leave assembly this morning because between the stuffy sinuses, standing the whole time, the heat, and my voracious hunger, I was afraid I would pass out (which would NOT set a very good example for the students!). By 12:30, I guess I looked so miserable that Alana sent me home - by way of her house, where she instructed me to ask her husband for lemons to mix with honey and put in tea. I wasn't sure what this meant, but when I got there and made the appropriate request, Keith marched out to the backyard and picked five fresh, yellow lemons off a small tree! I'm not sure I've ever smelled anything so delicious as those lemons. Mixed with local manuka honey, it was ambrosia for the gods (if you'll excuse the time-worn metaphor)!
Today we finally have the hot, muggy weather I've been waiting for. I'd be in heaven, if my skin weren't crawling in such an unpleasant way. Thanks to those little germs, I am not sitting on the veranda, tanning my feet and sipping lemonade (ooh, that's what I should do with those last four lemons! good idea). Instead, I'm draped limply across the couch, feeling sorry for myself. Sigh.