The light was too beautiful to let the moment pass without recording it.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Penstokes versus Keystokes
Who Needs Practical Skills?
I found a link to this article in a message board thread asking if anyone still used cursive in their daily lives. Reading the 43 replies before mine, I was saddened to learn that most people do not, or they use a self-described hybrid of cursive and lettering for their handwritten notes. I was disheartened to learn that Indiana is not the only state that has stopped teaching the skill, and that many teachers are prohibited from using cursive on their "chalk" boards because their 6th to 12th grade students cannot read it.
The question that was raised on the message board, that was not raised in the article, is "what are these children going to do if they have to do research on historical materials?" What if they need to read handwritten journals or historic documents? And that is a good question. We are teaching them to interpret the Constitution, but not to be able to read the original document.
We have lowered acceptable standards to the point that we are turning out functionally illiterate adults. What good does it do to teach students to type 45 words per minute, when they are no doubt learning that on their own, even if on their own they are using a hybrid of hunt-and-peck and proper typing techniques? I use a combination of typing techniques and was tested at more than 45 words per minute in 1996. I am sure my 14 years as a legal secretary only improved my rate. But knowing where the question mark is or which finger should hit the 6 on a standard keyboard, did not help me read the handwritten edits my bosses made on the drafts I handed them. It did not help me decipher the ever-worsening chicken-scratch cursive of my boss' timesheets. Keyboarding skills made the typing easy, but alone, they would not have gotten any of the time entered.
We, as a nation, have decided that our children do not need to learn the things we, the adults, did. We are spoon-feeding them the answers to standardized tests, without regard for their actual education. Real life is more than the Scantron, fill-in-the-bubble-tests. Real life does not come with multiple choice questions where the smart people can immediately discard at least two of the four options. Real life is cursive essay questions. Failing to give our children the skills for success in real life is yet one more nail in the coffin of the future. And when they grow to adults and ask who has failed to prepare me? The answer must be a resounding "We, your parents and grandparents, did."
I found a link to this article in a message board thread asking if anyone still used cursive in their daily lives. Reading the 43 replies before mine, I was saddened to learn that most people do not, or they use a self-described hybrid of cursive and lettering for their handwritten notes. I was disheartened to learn that Indiana is not the only state that has stopped teaching the skill, and that many teachers are prohibited from using cursive on their "chalk" boards because their 6th to 12th grade students cannot read it.
The question that was raised on the message board, that was not raised in the article, is "what are these children going to do if they have to do research on historical materials?" What if they need to read handwritten journals or historic documents? And that is a good question. We are teaching them to interpret the Constitution, but not to be able to read the original document.
We have lowered acceptable standards to the point that we are turning out functionally illiterate adults. What good does it do to teach students to type 45 words per minute, when they are no doubt learning that on their own, even if on their own they are using a hybrid of hunt-and-peck and proper typing techniques? I use a combination of typing techniques and was tested at more than 45 words per minute in 1996. I am sure my 14 years as a legal secretary only improved my rate. But knowing where the question mark is or which finger should hit the 6 on a standard keyboard, did not help me read the handwritten edits my bosses made on the drafts I handed them. It did not help me decipher the ever-worsening chicken-scratch cursive of my boss' timesheets. Keyboarding skills made the typing easy, but alone, they would not have gotten any of the time entered.
We, as a nation, have decided that our children do not need to learn the things we, the adults, did. We are spoon-feeding them the answers to standardized tests, without regard for their actual education. Real life is more than the Scantron, fill-in-the-bubble-tests. Real life does not come with multiple choice questions where the smart people can immediately discard at least two of the four options. Real life is cursive essay questions. Failing to give our children the skills for success in real life is yet one more nail in the coffin of the future. And when they grow to adults and ask who has failed to prepare me? The answer must be a resounding "We, your parents and grandparents, did."
Friday, June 24, 2011
A King of a Day
Yesterday, dearest had a seminar to attend in Melbourne, so I went with him. We took the early bus up, shared breakfast at what has become "our" breakfast spot in the city and then went our separate ways for the day. While he was in the seminar, I did some shopping and then we met up again to go to the King Tut exhibit at the Melbourne Museum, after which we had dinner and caught the late bus home.
It was a busy, exhausting day for me. I wandered through the shopping district of Melbourne, indulging myself with some new bath products and a bottle of purple ink for my fountain pen, and I picked up some gifts for people. I left dearest at the seminar about 10:30 a.m. and was on the go, seeing, doing, shopping until we met again about 2:45 p.m. I had about a 20 minute rest while I enjoyed my lunch, and then about 15 minutes as I arrived at our meeting location early -- but then it started raining so I scampered off in search of shelter and found it in touristy shops, where I contemplated the merits of teriyaki emu jerky and lanolin/placenta overnight moisturizer as appropriate souvenirs for friends. "I've moved to Australia, but you still have dry skin, so here have some placenta cream. It's the thought, right?"
After meeting up again, we got a tram (kind of a cross between subway trains and New Orleans streetcars but more utilitarian than historic) out to the Royal Exhibition Building/Melbourne Museum. It was the first time I had been to that area, and it meant I can tick off another UNESCO World Heritage Site from the list. (My total is now 10 sites visited.) The Royal Exhibit Building is a maintained old building. The Melbourne Museum is slick modern building, which looks as though the builders could not steady the plumb-bob to save their lives. Every vertical surface in the museum is at a different angle, creating many odd sloping walls and ceilings. After finding the ticket desk, an irregular shaped island in the middle of a large open space with no indications of its purpose other than velvet ropes marking out a queueing space, and picking up our tickets, we headed to an almost-but-not-quite-triangular window that served as the coat check to drop our bags, cameras, and coats. As in most museums, photography was not allowed in the exhibit, so why carry around the bags if we did not have to? We had a timed entry for 3:30 and, declining the green screen photo-op at the entry way, were right on time. I had seen the King Tut exhibit when it was at the New Orleans Museum of Art, but I was 5 years old at the time, and really remember only that road to the Museum was painted bright blue as a representation of the Nile. I honestly think it took until the Hurricane Katrina flooding to finally get all the blue paint off the roads around the Museum. I had also attended an Egyptian Artifacts exhibit at NOMA several years ago. That exhibit was frightening to me as the museum had been darkened and set up as a burial chamber. I was happy to see that the Melbourne Museum was not quite so dark or so realistically set. We opted not to take advantage of the audio tour, instead reading the information on the display cases. I hate people who jump into the space that is left when you are trying to be able to see both the text and the item well. By the third gallery room, I had had enough and was beginning to get rude myself -- especially to the people who had their audio tours turned up so loud I could hear them clearly without the headsets.
It was an interesting exhibit. The artwork was fantastic, and to think that everything was created without the aid of power tools makes everything more amazing. Dearest commented that it was a bit like looking at the booty of grave robbers, and in a way he's right. That aspect aside, I have another problem with the exhibit. Whenever I see Egyptian artifacts, I can't quite shake the feeling that the gods represented are not watching us with favorable eyes. The potential for smiting is real and palpable to me, and I can't quite shake the feeling that we are playing with forces we know not. I am glad I have seen it, but now, being the third time I have come in contact with such artifacts, I not entirely sure that my luck has not run out.
Having wandered through the exhibit at our leisure -- it took just about an hour and fifteen minutes; I noted the time because the group ahead of us in line was given a ticket for research purposes as to how long people took in the exhibit galleries -- we collected our gear from the triangle window and had a sit down to discuss dinner plans and the bus timetable. Deciding that even if there were food around the museum, we needed to get back to Spencer Street Station anyway, so we might as well head that way and find dinner as we saw something interesting. (The first time I met dearest, he pointed out the station using the name Spencer Street Station. At that time, it had been officially renamed as Southern Cross Station, but I, like the native New Orleanian I am, am loathe to use the new names of buildings, so I still think of it as Spencer Street Station. Perhaps it helps make me sound closer to a native Melburnian than a tourist.)
So it was back to the tram stop and down to Bourke Street in search of dinner and JB HiFi (for dearest's indulgences, which turned into mine as well). We discussed dinner and a pub meal was decided upon, and dearest wanted to try an Irish-themed one he knew. And so we did. I am not sure I will ever get used to restaurants where you have table service, but order at the bar. I miss having actual waiters who come to your table and take your order. But dearest was nice, found us a table and handled ordering. He was issued our drinks (Coke for me -- a big pint glass of Coke! -- and Killian's Irish Red for him) and a table number and we waited for dinner. Like other franchised themed restaurants/bars, the food was adequate, but nothing spectacular -- I had an order of onion rings (which were well fried with a crunchy beer batter), and a beef and Guinness stew (served with over-toasted, nearly burnt, bread and bland but inexplicably lumpy instant mashed potatoes; on the good note, the stew's gravy was fantastic and made an excellent dip for the onion rings). Dearest had fish and chips, which he described as too-quickly fried. After a less-than-satisfying dinner, soundtracked by an 80's arena-rock anthem retrospective, played too loudly for comfortable conversation, we were on our way to Spencer Street and the bus terminal, with a detour to the JB HiFi for a wander.
We arrived at the station about 40 minutes to an hour before the bus was scheduled, but by then we were both tired and ready to get home to our bed. And two and a half hours later, I was home and in my bed, quickly drifting off to dreamland.
It was a lovely day out.
It was a busy, exhausting day for me. I wandered through the shopping district of Melbourne, indulging myself with some new bath products and a bottle of purple ink for my fountain pen, and I picked up some gifts for people. I left dearest at the seminar about 10:30 a.m. and was on the go, seeing, doing, shopping until we met again about 2:45 p.m. I had about a 20 minute rest while I enjoyed my lunch, and then about 15 minutes as I arrived at our meeting location early -- but then it started raining so I scampered off in search of shelter and found it in touristy shops, where I contemplated the merits of teriyaki emu jerky and lanolin/placenta overnight moisturizer as appropriate souvenirs for friends. "I've moved to Australia, but you still have dry skin, so here have some placenta cream. It's the thought, right?"
Having wandered through the exhibit at our leisure -- it took just about an hour and fifteen minutes; I noted the time because the group ahead of us in line was given a ticket for research purposes as to how long people took in the exhibit galleries -- we collected our gear from the triangle window and had a sit down to discuss dinner plans and the bus timetable. Deciding that even if there were food around the museum, we needed to get back to Spencer Street Station anyway, so we might as well head that way and find dinner as we saw something interesting. (The first time I met dearest, he pointed out the station using the name Spencer Street Station. At that time, it had been officially renamed as Southern Cross Station, but I, like the native New Orleanian I am, am loathe to use the new names of buildings, so I still think of it as Spencer Street Station. Perhaps it helps make me sound closer to a native Melburnian than a tourist.)
So it was back to the tram stop and down to Bourke Street in search of dinner and JB HiFi (for dearest's indulgences, which turned into mine as well). We discussed dinner and a pub meal was decided upon, and dearest wanted to try an Irish-themed one he knew. And so we did. I am not sure I will ever get used to restaurants where you have table service, but order at the bar. I miss having actual waiters who come to your table and take your order. But dearest was nice, found us a table and handled ordering. He was issued our drinks (Coke for me -- a big pint glass of Coke! -- and Killian's Irish Red for him) and a table number and we waited for dinner. Like other franchised themed restaurants/bars, the food was adequate, but nothing spectacular -- I had an order of onion rings (which were well fried with a crunchy beer batter), and a beef and Guinness stew (served with over-toasted, nearly burnt, bread and bland but inexplicably lumpy instant mashed potatoes; on the good note, the stew's gravy was fantastic and made an excellent dip for the onion rings). Dearest had fish and chips, which he described as too-quickly fried. After a less-than-satisfying dinner, soundtracked by an 80's arena-rock anthem retrospective, played too loudly for comfortable conversation, we were on our way to Spencer Street and the bus terminal, with a detour to the JB HiFi for a wander.
It was a lovely day out.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Things I Learned Today
I'm old.
I've never really thought of myself as old, but reading tweets with the @KindergartenCop hashtag reveals it's an OLD movie.
I must be old; I remember when it came out in theaters.
I've never really thought of myself as old, but reading tweets with the @KindergartenCop hashtag reveals it's an OLD movie.
I must be old; I remember when it came out in theaters.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Russian Turtles
This evening, I watched a news story on the last NASA Space Shuttle Mission.
Dearest and I had a discussion following the story. Dearest says it's sad that the only way to the International Space Station now will be via Russian rockets. My contention is that fact alone indicates Russia won the Space Race. At a time when every country is facing serious budget choices, Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with nothing to replace them. Let me repeat that: Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with NOTHING to replace them.
Communism may have proven to be a miserable failure as a governmental system. The Red Menace of the 1950's and 1960's may have paled to nothing more than a Pink-ish smear in the history books. But the Russian manned space program has outlived the US one.
From Sputnik to Soyuz, Russia may have lost battles, but it has won the war.
Dearest and I had a discussion following the story. Dearest says it's sad that the only way to the International Space Station now will be via Russian rockets. My contention is that fact alone indicates Russia won the Space Race. At a time when every country is facing serious budget choices, Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with nothing to replace them. Let me repeat that: Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with NOTHING to replace them.
Communism may have proven to be a miserable failure as a governmental system. The Red Menace of the 1950's and 1960's may have paled to nothing more than a Pink-ish smear in the history books. But the Russian manned space program has outlived the US one.
From Sputnik to Soyuz, Russia may have lost battles, but it has won the war.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Indulgences
I've been bad.
I've been very bad.
I've indulged myself.
Yes. It's a sickness. I have told you all before. I'm a book-a-holic. And I indulged myself.
And I think I may have to again. So many new books are coming out... and I need them all. It's gone well beyond wanting; I need them -- to complete series or collections and more importantly to keep bookstores in business. If we do not buy actual books, bookstores may go the way of the dinosaurs. We may lose the last remaining bookstores. I cannot be a part of anything that will kill off bookstores. And yet, I cannot keep up this kind of indulgence.
Surely there is a middle ground. Yes! There is! I can have other people buy the books for me. That's an even better plan! Yes! I get to indulge my passions, and the bookstores have more, or at least different, customers. It's the best of both worlds. Okay readers, my birthday is at the end of August. Between now and then there are a good number of books coming out that I need. I will happily provide a list upon request. :) :)
I've been very bad.
I've indulged myself.
And I think I may have to again. So many new books are coming out... and I need them all. It's gone well beyond wanting; I need them -- to complete series or collections and more importantly to keep bookstores in business. If we do not buy actual books, bookstores may go the way of the dinosaurs. We may lose the last remaining bookstores. I cannot be a part of anything that will kill off bookstores. And yet, I cannot keep up this kind of indulgence.
Surely there is a middle ground. Yes! There is! I can have other people buy the books for me. That's an even better plan! Yes! I get to indulge my passions, and the bookstores have more, or at least different, customers. It's the best of both worlds. Okay readers, my birthday is at the end of August. Between now and then there are a good number of books coming out that I need. I will happily provide a list upon request. :) :)
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